The Claiming Rite
by Salkiethia
Summary: Of course not. I like you well enough, but you will always be too much yourself for me. I’m too much of a narcissist to ever give myself away.” #Scandal, Blind#Anal, Angst, Exhib, Humil, M/M, N/C, Oral, COMPLETE, Yaoi
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Disjunction

The audience chamber was empty with the exception of two sweating, bare bodies hopelessly entangled on the floor. Whimpers and moans of pleasure echoed around the hall; neither one took a care of silence. The tall, lean brunet was the High Priest-in-training, still waiting to assume the post with the completion of his internship. His smaller, wilder partner was none other than the heir to the throne of Egypt – Prince Atemu.  
Seth growled as Atemu's thrusts increased in tempo. One of the prince's hands began to stroke him erratically, and his growls changed to a groan at the assault on his senses.  
Atemu came first before lazily stroking Seth to his own completion. The two of them lay, tangled together , until both of their pulses had calmed and their breathing returned to normal.  
As per usual, Atemu was the first of the pair up. Seth watched him gather his clothing and leave. He knew that the prince would hardly balk at walking through the palace bare, as he'd seen Atemu often wander the halls in various states of undress. However, unlike the prince, Seth knew he had an image to uphold.  
With great care, he dressed himself and began the trek to the bathing complex, hoping to find some servant or other to clean the audience hall before the gathering with foreign ambassadors.  
Atemu had either forgotten his father's audience in his eagerness for a tryst, or he didn't care. Seth figured it was the latter. In general, the prince seemed to have a relatively limited experience with responsibility.  
It was one of many traits Seth did not approve of. However, the prince was the son of a god, and not to be questioned. One day, Atemu would be a god himself. Seth planned on being around for that; criticism of a god was not the best way to earn favorable looks.  
He was halfway to the bathing rooms and still there was no sign of any servants.  
When you don't need them, they're all over the place, but the moment there's a job that needs to be done, they disappear. How convenient, he muttered to himself.  
Well, he'd cleaned up trysting areas before – if there still wasn't a servant around by the time he'd reached the bathing hall, he'd just do it himself.  
There was no one at all in the halls. In disgust, Seth turned around to return to the audience chamber, grabbing a few linens to use on the way out.  
It would be just my luck, he grumbled, stalking back the way he had come.  
Again, the corridors were all empty. It made him wonder where everyone was.  
The Audience can't be yet, can it? he wondered, lengthening his steps.  
IT would make total, horrible sense, because all the servants would be serving food or dancing or whatever for the foreign ambassadors. He sent a quick prayer to Thoth, asking that no one would be there…  
Thoth didn't quite deliver, but Seth sent a burst of gratitude anyway. The only other person in the room was a small boy already working on the white mess. Still, no use in shoring the gods their due.  
Seth closed the door of the audience hall behind himself and strode over to the child's hunched form.  
"I'll take it from here," he told the boy. A pair of violet eyes met his for a brief second before the child nodded and stood up to leave.  
Seth knelt and dropped one of the linens on the floor to finish cleaning.  
The door opened when he was nearly done, making him look up quickly, ready to hide evidence of his work, but then he relaxed marginally. It was Atemu.  
The prince moved like a great hunting cat, over to his father's throne. Atemu didn't sit on the throne so much as he claimed it, Seth mused. The prince had posed rather provocatively, one leg up on the arm, leaning back, staring from under lowered lashes with a smirk.  
"You know," he began in husky tones, "Isis had enough foresight to send a slave, Seth. I hardly think cleaning your own seed off the audience floor is a requirement for becoming High Priest." The prince paused, eyes glittering as Seth flushed. In the semi-darkness, he assumed Atemu wouldn't notice. He was wrong. Either the prince had astounding night vision or he knew Seth's reactions well enough to gauge them.  
"Embarassed are we?" Atemu crooned. "Is it from Isis spying on you or having been ccaught doing servant's work, I wonder?"  
Seth bit his lip to keep from replying. Atemu knew very well just how paranoid Seth could be about privacy. It was one in a long list of subjects the prince often taunted him about. The thought of Isis having foreseen the need for a servant to clean the audience chamber – even if she'd seen nothing else – made his gut clench uncomfortably. It was almost worse than having someone walk in on them.  
His face felt hot. He knew he must be red. Atemu's laughter didn't help.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The Audience lasted much longer than he would have liked. Atemu had been standing close to him, the tease, and getting his blood riled, knowing as he must have, how such behavior irked Seth. Now the high priest-in-training was attempting to walk at a sedate pace towards the prince's chambers.  
Attempting, being the key word, for he was not succeeding. To anyone else, Seth was walking briskly, and that was precisely the problem. One ran when there was an emergency. One strolled when there was nothing of overt importance on one's mind. One walked briskly when there was a task to be done – some goal to be reached.  
He hated the feeling, but refused to classify his need as an 'emergency'. Perhaps the prince could afford to be ruled by lust now and again. A high priest – especially one who had not yet even completed formal training – was not to be allowed that luxury.  
So, he walked.  
Briskly.  
It was still too slow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Atemu smirked down at him. Seth was, by far and large, used to the view. It rarely changed. The whole kingdom knew the Claiming Rite – and knew too, that it was more than unlikely this prince would ever employ it.  
In some ways, Seth considered that to be a great pity. Most of the time, he felt it when denied a finish in the prince's body. Those most unsatisfying times were when he seriously rethought this idea of being Atemu's lover.  
Like as not to be cast away with the dawn, as it was whispered.  
Yet somehow, he hadn't been.  
And still –  
Atemu thrust hard into him, striking that one point of purest pleasure. Against his will, Seth felt a yell torn from his throat, ripe as fruit picked form a vine. The feel of the prince – even if it was only an addiction, only a fantasy doomed to end – was worth anything when Atemu exerted himself.  
Shamelessly above, Atemu groaned as Seth watched and the pleasure built in both of them.  
"Touch yourself," the prince whispered in his ear. His voice was deep and rich – the epitome of sex.  
Atemu knew how demeaning Seth considered such a command to be. The high priest-in-training, however, could not deny an order from the prince. He guessed Atemu drew pleasure from his own twisted commands as well, knowing the one whom he was taking would find release by his own hand.  
Seth hated it.  
His hand snaked down to begin feverishly stroking himself, attempting to match Atemu's rhythm. Against his wishes, another groan escaped his lips.  
"Seth." Atemu's ragged whisper sounded in his ear. "Seth, come for me."  
The prince's hands were on his hips, limiting movement.  
Atemu's smile was seductive, his eyes dark with pleasure as he released and withdrew, leaving a sticky trail of semen down Seth's thighs.  
The prince pulled back; Seth was still not satiated. Atemu's smile widened.  
"Come for me."  
The brunet felt his face burn. Atemu knew how much he disliked being watched, even with clothing on. Somehow the prince seemed to gain his greatest pleasure from Seth's discomfort.  
An order was an order.  
Eyes closed, Seth began to stroke himself anew. He was close already.  
Atemu's lips brushed against his ear. "Keep your eyes open, Seth," the prince breathed, teasingly.  
Seth's eyes opened, and he felt his flush deepen. Atemu's eyes raked hungrily over his bare body – he felt as if he was being devoured alive.  
In short, it was humiliating.  
A few more sharp strokes and he arched into his own hand, releasing his seed across his own chest.  
Atemu smirked and stood, flaunting his perfect body in a way Seth would never have dared to do.  
It was no wonder the prince had both males and females trailing after him, drowning in their own drool.  
The prince's sexual appetite seemed insatiable; already he was beginning to tease himself back to arousal.  
Seth simply relaxed, knowing that after the first exchange, Atemu hardly cared if his partner was aroused or not. Right now, he was simply a body for the taking.  
Atemu smiled at him.  
Seth spread his legs a little wider.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was dark when he finally left the prince's room. Atemu would not sleep with him – with anyone – until the Claiming Rite had been carried through.  
Those who didn't know Atemu at all bet on Seth. Those who did know bet no one. Seth himself doubted whether Atemu was capable of the humility the Rite required.  
To be taken, fully possessed by another – the concept must seem so foreign to the prince, Seth thought. Never was there a moment when Atemu was not absolutely in charge, except when Seth enjoyed the dubious pleasure of being the top.  
And even then… He wasn't really on top, because Atemu would never allow that. The control that belonged to the one on top always rested with the prince.  
Seth walked slowly in the halls. He felt slightly uncomfortable, but there was no pain – only residual soreness. Unlike the first sexual marathon he had engaged in, he could walk away.  
His inability to do so the first time had given Atemu yet another thing to taunt him with. The prince used every advantage. Seth doubted whether he would ever be free of his own failings so long as Atemu was around to remind him.  
The question of why he would remain with Atemu, despite the taunts and denials – the answer was simple, the reasoning less so. Atemu had not given him leave to abandon the 'relationship', and so he would not. Could not. Besides, there was a small, twisted part inside that had actually grown attached to the prince, beyond the physical attraction.  
Seth wished it had never come into existence.  
His door loomed before him. Without another two thoughts about it, the young man entered and collapsed on his bed, letting his body plunge into the sleep it so deeply desired. Problems, worries, wishes – they could all wait for the morrow.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Seth growled in frustration. His final exam to become High Priest was in a few days. He was trying to study. Atemu was doing his best to distract him.  
When Atemu wanted to do something, he generally succeeded.  
Seth was distracted. Possibly, it was the hands plunged down the front of his kilt. Maybe it was the husky voice whispering obscene possibilities in his ear. Perhaps it was his own weakness in defying the prince anything.  
Whatever the reason, when Atemu began stripping him, Seth complied without the faintest hint of reluctance.  
Seth wondered if his study was the optimal place for this. There really weren't any comfortable surfaces…  
Atemu's nude body glowed. It was rare to see him in anything more covering than a simple hip-wrap unless his father forced him into something more formal. Considering his body though – Atemu hardly needed clothing.  
Seth trailed his hands down the prince's chest, rubbing at his nipples. In contrast, Atemu's hands were digging into the place right behind Seth's shoulder blades, forcing his back to arch if he didn't want to have his joints dislocated.  
The movement brought their groins into contact.  
Atemu was a raging fire, impossible to quell. As his foil stood Seth, slow to rise to the moment when passions were forefront.  
The prince was shorter, but not overly so. His hands relocated themselves to Seth's buttocks, squeezing until the brunet began to wince. They gentled then, but not by much.  
Seth's hands were occupied with Atemu's thighs. In a short while, he knew the prince would require his mouth.  
He did, and Seth knelt before him, ignoring the slight pull on his scalp as Atemu's fingers threaded firmly into his hair. The prince guided his head forward, and he opened his mouth obediently to suck. Yet again, this was a position he found demeaning, and so Atemu asked – nay, demanded – it of him.  
The prince tasted salty in his mouth. Each time he thrust forward, Seth had to work to still his gag reflex. His tongue sat limply in his mouth, refusing to help.  
Atemu pulled out before he climaxed, as Seth knew he would. The prince's sex glistened with saliva. Atemu offered Seth his fingers. He took them into his mouth, regretting the lack of proper lubrication in the study.  
After a brief prep, the prince took him.  
Seth tried to stifle the sounds of his pleasure. Atemu – shameless, lusty, brazen Atemu – was making no such attempt, allowing throaty howls of pleasure to echo in the study and, no doubt, beyond.  
The prince's hand made sporadic contact with Seth's aching need. He wondered if Atemu planned on watching him again.  
The study door opened.  
Seth paled, but Atemu continued pounding away, finally stroking his partner until they had both come.  
Afraid to look, but unable to pretend ignorance of the new arrival, Seth looked up from his place on the floor. Both Atemu's father and his own instructor were standing there, regarding them.  
Atemu stood, seeming utterly unabashed at having been caught in such a situation. Then again, it was impossible to fire the heir.  
For his own part, Seth was mortified, and more than embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromised state of affairs.  
"Hello father, High Priest," Atemu greeted. He had made no move towards his clothing, seemingly utterly at ease in his own sweaty skin, seed splashed liberally across his abdomen.  
The Pharaoh seemed to be unsurprised by the state of his son. The High Priest, on the other hand, looked quite near a fit of apoplexy.  
Seth knew that look rather well, but it was the first time he could recall it being directed at him. Usually the beneficiaries of that fearsome look were shirkers and cheats.  
"I assume you have a good reason for distracting the young High Priest," Atemu's father commented lightly. His sparkling steel eyes indicated it had better be a very good reason.  
Atemu seemed neither taken aback no apologetic. Instead, he offered a warm smile that had no sexual conjunction. Seth thought it an odd look for the prince. Sex was so much a part of his being that there was a distinct wrongness in seeing him do anything chaste.  
"I am searching for the partner of my Claiming Rite," Atemu announced.  
Seth gasped. He was not the only one. His instructor, the High Priest, was goggling at Atemu as if the prince had just announced he was becoming a eunuch.  
The Pharaoh merely raised an eyebrow. "An interesting development. With whom do you plan on completing the Rite?"  
Seth looked at Atemu, wondering the same. If the prince had already chosen a partner for the Rite –  
Why is he still involved with me?  
Atemu smirked with all his haughty arrogance. "Why, Seth, of course," he answered.  
Seth felt as if he'd been hit by an out-of-control chariot.  
"What?" he managed to choke out.  
For a moment, he thought Atemu was serious. That moment ended when the prince turned and offered him an exaggerated wink.  
He relaxed then. It was a ploy to keep both of them from trouble.  
Part of him wished it weren't. He stubbornly sat on that piece of himself.  
"B-but," the High Priest stuttered.  
Seth used the momentary distraction to tie his own hip-wrap on. Perhaps Atemu could face the Pharaoh bare without pause; he could never do so.  
"Is there a problem with that?" the prince demanded, his demeanor changing from fire to ice.  
Seth's mentor looked as if he dearly wanted to give protest, but none could be offered. The participants of the Rite were not open to discussion.  
Atemu's arm wrapped protectively around Seth's waist.  
Both the High Priest and the Pharaoh regarded the two of them for a long moment. Finally, the Pharaoh broke the silence. "I am pleased you have made a choice, my son," he said. Seth could detect no inflection, no hidden meaning to his words. He left, leaving Atemu and Seth to face the High Priest.  
Again, there was extended silence while the Priest fought for words. Finally he addressed Seth.  
"You are still taking your exam in three days. I won't pass you just because you're the prince's chosen."  
Atemu's laughter cut away the High Priest's bluster. "You would do well not to threaten the prince's chosen, old man. Or had you forgotten the prince becomes the pharaoh?"  
There was no reply to that. Instead of making one, Seth's mentor fled. Atemu glared after him.  
Seth wondered if he was going to remove his arm from around his waist .His inner self sighed with the prince did.  
"If he gives you any trouble, let me know," Atemu commanded.  
Seth nodded. He didn't think this newest development was anything to grow excited over, but Atemu was never this protective… "You weren't being serious, were you?" A tiny hope had risen, beginning to blossom.  
The prince's laughter destroyed it. "Of course not. I like you well enough, but you will always be too much yourself for me." He shrugged. "I'm too much of a narcissist to ever give myself away."  
Silently, Seth nodded. He had expected as much.  
The prince sobered. "Do let me know if he makes things difficult. I know you want the post of High Priest, and believe me – there is no one else I'd rather have guarding my secrets."  
"And your body," Seth could help adding.  
Atemu smirked. "But of course. And who better than one with a vested interest in keeping me – all of me – in on piece?"  
Seth flushed, nodded and left.  
Atemu's laughter chased him down the halls.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was late. Seth was once again in his study, attempting to make up for the hours Atemu had stolen from him. He was having limited success with focus, because he could feel the prince's scarlet gaze burning into his back.  
Atemu knew he hated being watched.  
Seth knew he would never rightfully earn his priesthood if he did not complete this study. But Atemu's eyes –  
The prince didn't need to say anything to put him off-balance. His mere presence was enough. He had two days left to finish preparing for his final exam. There had to be a way to keep the prince at bay until then.  
Subtle went over Atemu's head. Therefore, he would have to be quite forward and risk whatever consequences he might reap in the process.  
"Atemu?" He turned in his chair to meet the prince's eyes.  
"Yes, Seth?" Atemu practically purred. Seth felt tempted to abandon his resolve, but resisted. This was something he had to do, if he were to prove he could succeed on his own.  
"I need to study. I can't do that with you here."  
"Distracting, am I?" Atemu asked, a hint of amused laughter coloring his voice. He arched, letting the tunic he was wearing ride up. Today was one of those odd days when he was fully attired.  
Seth nodded. "Very," he commented dryly. "And distracting is hardly what I need right now."  
Atemu smirked. "You'll have to find someone to take your place then," he said.  
The idea was a good one.  
"Perhaps one of the pleasure slaves?" Seth suggested.  
A disgusted snort ended that suggestion. Then Atemu got a look in his eye.  
"Bring one of the regular slaves to my quarters in the pleasure slave attire," he instructed.  
The order was a confusing one. Seth did not question it. He nodded and Atemu disappeared, leaving the young priest-to-be with his books.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A servant was generally an easy thing to come by, except of course, when one was needed.  
Seth had crossed the entire complex twice already and there were no candidates suitable for the prince's bed. He was about to give up on his search and got to Atemu himself when a young boy carrying towels crossed his path.  
Young, yes, but certainly not a child. Seth followed inconspicuously behind him. After the boy had left the load of towels in the bathing rooms, Seth came out to catch him by the arm.  
In the back of his mind, he noted the child possessed violet eyes. He made the connection easily enough. This was the same boy who had cleaned up from the tryst in the audience hall. What a twist of fate.  
"Come with me," he ordered, gratified to see the boy did not question but obeyed directly, though his violet eyes were wide with curiosity.  
Seth had not yet selected the garments from the pleasure slave outfitters, so he brought the violet-eyed boy along to be dressed.  
It took very little time, and he was pleased to not that the child bore marked similarities to a true pleasure slave.  
Now to take him to Atemu's chambers.  
They walked in silence to the prince's rooms. Seth opened the door. Atemu was not in yet. He paused for a moment, then made his decision.  
"Go wait on the bed," he ordered.  
The child's wide eyes were the only indication that he knew anything about what might be going on.  
Seth ignored that half-frightened look. Before leaving, he shut the door. Let Atemu do as he would. Seth did not care now.

_______________________________________________________________  
Author's Note:  
Thoth: The god of wisdom; I see Seto (and by correlation, Seth) as having a connection with any god involving wisdom or knowledge. Thoth has an ibis' head.  
Servant vs. Slave: Because of the differences in background, I see Seth as inclined towards naming the people of the palace who aren't royalty or guards etc. as 'servants', while Atemu (being a rather pompous ass the way I write him) would see them as slaves instead. All to do with background, in my humble(ish) opinion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Conjunction

-

-

-

For this chapter, I'd suggest referring to the Author's Note at the end first, just to get a sense of what is going on. However, it's not necessary... You can just breeze through and read them at the end. Works both ways. :)

Atemu pushed open the door to his chambers, wondering what exactly, Seth had left him. Truth to tell, he hadn't been much surprised to have raised the ire of his priest-to-be.  
At first, he thought there was no one there, but when the door creaked a bit, someone sat up on his bed. Atemu came in and shut the door before stalking forward.  
He studied the slave on his bed. The sheer gauze draped across his shoulders did little to conceal him, and the short hip wrap was a mockery of true clothing. There were no other ornaments, but in his opinion, such baubles only got in the way.  
The slave was a young man – possibly a boy still – and fragile of build. If he had been born a girl, he would have been called delicate.  
Possibly the most intriguing aspect of this one's appearance though – his eyes. Wide eyes, lovely eyes, filled with apprehension and curiosity.  
Atemu smiled. Hesitantly, the boy smiled back. The prince settled his weight on the bed and reached for the boy, lust boiling in his blood.

He sat awake, watching the sleeping child. The boy had been untouched – something he had not counted on. Even Seth had been possessed before. There had been an innocence to him; Atemu wondered if he had destroyed that.  
He wouldn't have slept with the child in his room – except now the boy was asleep, and he was loath to wake him.  
So he sat and watched and thought and wondered. All were odd pastimes, but they stirred something in him. Or perhaps, the wide-eyed panic of the child he'd taken had awoken some long forgotten instinct.  
It would be a long night, awake and alone with such a dilemma.

The morning came in softly, brushing across the sleeper's bare form. Atemu still watched, waiting for the boy to awaken.  
He did so slowly, stepping into consciousness with the grace of a thousand mornings. The child sat up, wincing slightly. He froze when he saw Atemu.  
The prince offered no smile this time. In his own mind, there was a wrong to be righted. He came forward with determination. The flavor of the child's fear only strengthened his resolve.  
"Hush, little one," he breathed into the boy's ear. There was no relaxing, but he intended to change that. Following a long-forgotten dancing pattern of the senses, Atemu ran his mouth over the child's neck, sucking gently.  
No response. The tense muscles did not slacken. But no matter, either. This was just beginning.  
His mouth trailed lower across the boy's collar. One of his hands ran down the boy's side, firm but gentle.  
His mouth trailed lower. The break in the child's breathing was all the encouragement he needed. Both lips and tongue teased one nipple while one hand stroked the other.  
He drew back to regard the child. Bare skin shimmered with sweat. Those violet eyes watched him with the wariness of a hunted animal.  
Atemu drew forward again, striving this time to offer only pleasure. His mouth caressed every inch of skin on his way down from nipples to navel. The boy became a writhing mass.  
Every so often, the prince sat back to let them both cool, prolonging the experience. To only give was something new, but it was a challenge he could not resist.  
He spread the boy's legs slowly, watching for a reaction. There it was – a flinch of discomfort.  
He brought his head down to kiss the inside of the boy's thighs. So smooth – so perfect. He couldn't resist trailing his mouth nearer the evidence of pleasure, stopping short with a mischievous smile to begin on the other leg.  
The pearly drops collecting at the tip of his sex looked enticing. Atemu reached out to trace a finger over the sensitive head. The boy shuddered and moaned softly – the first audible evidence of pleasure. Atemu brought the finger with precome to his mouth, licking it off. The fluid was salty, and slightly bitter.  
His hands found the boy's hips – held him firmly in place. The fear-question look had returned to break the glassy mist of pleasure. Atemu dipped his head forward, gently drawing him in.  
He worked from memory of what felt good, using his own experiences to build a new one. If the shuddering breaths, loudening moans and half-thrusting hips were any indication –  
Atemu added his tongue, using it to stroke the flesh in his mouth, urging the boy along to completion. He was unprepared for the salted rush of semen. It half choked him, until he remembered how to swallow.  
Still the sticky fluid left a strange aftertaste – and feel – in his mouth.  
He drew back again to regard the young male across his bed. The boy's eyes were shut, his head tilted as far back as humanely possible, making each shallow breath visible. The fine sheen of sweat had gained in volume to drench his body. Traces of release still flecked his thighs and abdomen.  
He looked utterly without peer. Exotic, erotic – Atemu backed off the bed and began to touch himself, staring at the vision across his bed. It didn't' take long to finish himself. Afterwards, he took a trip down to the bathing halls, intending to clean himself up a little.  
The whole time he was gone, he wondered at the little male in his room. He intended to gain some answers.

The boy was sleeping when he returned. Atemu was disinclined to wake him, and instead simply sat at the edge of the bed, watching… Always watching.  
He felt as though he were trying to memorize each breath, every little movement the child made. The fierce protectiveness that clung to him – he had to wonder at its intensity and wonder too at its meaning. Interesting thoughts, but the boy was coming into his own again.  
Atemu rested his hand on the boy's shoulder, gently steering him into wakefulness. Violet eyes fluttered open and their owner regarded him with a somber detachment. Atemu reached to him, cupping his chin in one hand.  
"Relax, little one. I will not hurt you." Unspoken, the word hung between them.  
Again.  
This time, the boy did relax a little. Atemu scooted closer, pulling the boy up and back, turned to they sat against each other, both facing the same way.  
It felt odd to be so close to someone without a driving need for possession. Atemu decided he liked the feeling.  
It may have been hours – it might have been years, before he felt the need to break the comfortable silence. Or, perhaps, not so comfortable. The boy was still taut, poised to flee. No trust, but then again, Atemu mused, he hardly deserved so precious a commodity as trust, least of all from this one.  
His lips brushed against the tip of an ear. "Do you have a name, little one?" the prince asked.  
He barely caught the whisper of a reply. Fainter than mist and dew drops.  
"Moswen."  
He tested the name on his own tongue. It was bitter to the taste, tinged with the sense of not-belonging. But so too, was there a sweetness to it. Light skin. The pale one. Bright like the sun in its sky.  
"Do you know who I am?" he asked softly.  
Moswen tensed.  
Atemu tried to soothe him. "It doesn't matter, really," he breathed into the boy's ear. "I was just curious. It's all right – shh…"  
Slowly, painfully, Moswen relaxed again.  
"I don't know," he answered, still so soft it could have been mistaken for a change in the air currents instead of a voice.  
Atemu gently mouthed the curve of his neck. "It doesn't matter," he reiterated.  
Moswen leaned back against him, tilting his head a bit to the side to provide better access. Atemu smiled slightly. The request was easy enough to read. He let one hand stray up to the boy's chest – began to toy with a nipple, teasing it until it was a peaked nub. Under his mouth, he could feel Moswen's pulse quicken.  
A moan escaped one of them – he wasn't sure which. His other hand rested on the boy's hip, tracing light patterns across the skin.  
The ragged groan that filled the air – that was certainly the property of Moswen.  
Atemu felt his body respond to the sounds.  
The boy froze against him, tenser than a harp string tuned too high.  
"Shh – " he tried to calm him, pulling back and letting Moswen free of the confines of his arms. Slowly again the boy calmed. This time, he came forward on his own, towards Atemu and let his own mouth caress the prince's skin.  
Such a delicate, untrained touch – Atemu's heart practically tore itself apart in ferocious pounding.  
Moswen began to mimic every movement of Atemu's, his hands drifting to the prince's chest to begin gently rubbing at the nipples.  
Atemu let a sigh of pleasure rush out. But, he was not suited to inaction. He let his own hands wander across Moswen's bare skin, trailing them even lower.  
The boy squeaked indignantly when his hands cupped ach half of the warm, smooth buttocks. Atemu grinned and leaned back, pulling Moswen's body on top of his own.  
Despite the heat, they simply lay like that, chest-to-chest, legs tangled, for a time. Then Moswen moved again, sitting up a little. The shift put their groins in contact and electricity surged.  
Atemu's back arched and the boy gasped, instinctively reacting with a jagged thrust of his own. The fire was burning him up.  
Before he quite knew what he was doing, Atemu found himself behind Moswen, the boy on his hands and knees, looking back with question in his eyes. Atemu lowered his mouth, brushing his lips softly across the bare skin of the other's lower back.  
One hand kept him upright. The other went seeking between Moswen's thighs. His prize was the velvety softness of the boy's sac. Knowing the potential for pain, he was inclined to be gentle, watching for any sign of discomfort. But Moswen arched his back, making sounds like a purring temple cat.  
Atemu smiled and replaced his hand with his mouth. That got a much more vocal response. The boy keened, his voice breaking on the highest note. Not loudly, but enough for surety. It felt good.  
His hands pulled the boy's hips lower. Moswen's thighs spread wider.  
Atemu ran his hands back and forth across the boy's hips while continuing to work with his mouth until his charge was nearly choking on air. He dropped back then, giving both of them a moment to cool off.  
Moswen's body gleamed with sweat. Atemu found his eyes drawn over and over to the perfect, trembling form. An idea occurred to him and he reached for a jar of oil to coat his fingers with.  
The boy's eyes were closed, so he didn't see the movement. Atemu came forward and rested his unoiled hand at the base of Moswen's spine.  
"Trust me?" Atemu asked. That earned him a curious look, but then the boy nodded. Maintaining eye contact, Atemu slowly drew one oil-coated finger down the cleft of the boy's buttocks.  
Moswen's eyes widened slightly and Atemu froze. "Trust me?" he asked again.  
It took longer for a nod this time, but finally the boy gave on.  
He didn't bother with reassurances for this. Moswen would find on his own what pleasure could be had in another's hands.  
He slipped a finger into the boy, gently probing for that one spot. AS much as it might feel like a prep, he had no intention of taking his charge.  
Moswen let out a strangled cry and his hips jerked. That was the spot then. Atemu added another finger and began to stroke that spot in earnest, listening to the growing sounds of pleasure escaping the boy's lips. As an afterthought, he began to caress the weeping sex between his charge's thighs, adding a new note to the chorus.  
The double assault didn't last long before Moswen seized up and released. He collapsed, panting hard.  
Atemu crawled over his prone body, leaning down to nuzzle the curve of his neck. He had thought the boy would go to sleep again. The hand touching him put an end to that idea. The inexpert, hesitant touches were, if anything, more arousing than those of a paid courtesan or pleasure slave. Atemu had to struggle to keep from thrusting his hips into that touch. His own finish built slowly and then arrived, spattering his chest and abdomen with release.  
As much as he would have liked to simply fall asleep, he could feel the presence of someone at his door. He ran a hand over the boy's shoulder and stood, turning towards the door.  
Seth was there, watching him. Atemu smirked and added a suggestive swagger to his walk. The brunet gave him an odd look, but made no comment.  
Atemu grabbed a hip-wrap and tugged the taller young man out the door, closing it behind them.  
"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," Seth commented.  
Atemu shrugged, a half-smile replacing the smirk. "You saw. What do you need?"  
The priest-to-be shook his head. "Not me; your father requests your presence – rather insistently – in his chamber immediately."  
That made him thoughtful. Had he done something? Perhaps the Pharaoh had found out about Moswen and did not approve? That could hardly be a problem though… If there was no objection to pleasure slaves, why protest a slave used for pleasure?  
Atemu nodded and set off, leaving Seth behind. The hip-wrap was easy to tie as he walked –he'd had enough experience, certainly. There was little he could do about the semen flecked quite liberally across his body, but it was hardly a concern – his father (and really most of the kingdom) knew how unreserved he was. Looking like he was just coming from a tryst was hardly a strange state of affairs. Particularly since he was.  
He made the trek to his father's chambers swiftly, knocked twice to announce his arrival and entered. The Pharaoh was standing, gazing out the window.  
"Father?" Atemu greeted, employing a respectful half-bow as he was unaware of his father's intent on summoning him.  
The Pharaoh turned. "Atemu. Sit, my son."  
So he was 'son,' then. A good sign. If he had displeased his father, he would have been 'boy'. He settled on the floor as his father had indicated. The positioning was supposed to represent humility and a willingness to learn.  
Atemu thought it a good way to examine potential mates. Or to get a crick in the neck if one was actually paying attention.  
The Pharaoh remained standing, but then frowned slightly and moved to perch on the edge of his bed.  
"Atemu – you don't really intend to complete the Rite with Seth do you?"  
Atemu blinked. Well, he certainly hadn't anticipated that question… Although, he supposed it made sense.  
He didn't even bother to pretend. "No, father."  
"It was just a ploy to keep the young priest out of trouble?"  
"Yes," he admitted. Was it his imagination, or did his father looked relieved at that?  
"Good. I had thought as much, but I needed to be sure. Seth is a good lad, but neither one of you are made for the other."  
Atemu nodded. "He is too much himself," he agreed, before adding with a smile, "and I am too fond of my own self to become entangled."  
The Pharaoh smiled wearily. "That is good, Atemu. The more friends and supporters you have, the better, and you do not need the Rite to claim them. Perhaps in another time and place it could have worked. For now, my son… Be wary of giving even a part of yourself away; you may never get it back."  
Atemu paused to see if there would be more, but nothing else came. He rose to his feet and gave a small bow before leaving.

Seth was waiting for him in the bathing halls. "What did he want?" the brunet asked.  
Atemu shrugged and stripped down. The hip wrap still served as his only concession to clothing and it was damp with sweat. He had gone out to run with several other boys after meeting his father, just to shake the edge off his energy.  
"Remind me never to race Ammon again. He's faster than a sandstorm and twice as rough."  
Seth smirked. "I thought you liked it rough, prince."  
He growled back. Trust Seth to be dirty minded when his muscles ached. "Only in bed. I'd rather the rest of my existence be as sedate as possible." Oh, but his legs burned!  
Without waiting for the priest to reply, Atemu leapt into the pool, hoping he'd manage to splash some sense into Seth. He peeked above the surface, disgusted to discover the other young man had removed himself – and his dressy robes – from harm's way in time to stay dry.  
Atemu tilted his head back and began to float, watching Seth. It was no kind of staring contest. After a few moments, the brunet had blinked and looked away. Not weak…  
But eyes are the windows to the soul, and his is something he'll never let me see. Maybe someone else, someday. Father is right; we don't belong to each other.  
"What's the point of coming to the bathing hall if you're not going to get wet?" he asked.  
The barest hint of a smile flickered across Seth's face. "Aside from gloating over your difficulty in walking, I came to tell you I passed the official examination. I 'm High Priest."  
Atemu blinked as the new sunk in. Then, with a warning, he lunged out of the pool and seized Seth in a hug, getting the fine fabric of his dress robes dripping wet. While Seth spluttered indignantly, Atemu smirked…and then shoved him into the bathing pool itself, fancy clothing and all.  
The priest came up glaring. Atemu adopted an innocent look. "What? You were already wet!"  
Smiling suggestively, he slid into the pool. "But you're wearing too much now…"

The door to his room was ajar. Frowning, Atemu walked through it, only to be hit by the rather pungent odor of lotus in full bloom A pair of fragile earthen jars sat in the corner of his room, holding a gathering of lotus blooms in each.  
He frowned, going over to examine them. The jars he'd never seen before. They weren't' of high enough quality to belong in the palace, either. So, what were they doing here?  
Soft footsteps made him turn around. Moswen was in the doorway, carrying yet another jar with lotus blooms in it. The boy smiled. Atemu smiled back as he stood.  
"What are these for?" he asked, indicating the flowers and jars.  
Moswen blushed a little. On most Egyptians, the extra color would have been hard to see. On him, it stood out quite well against the backdrop of pale skin.  
"I just wanted to thank you," the boy said, sounding – of all things – shy.  
Thank me? For what? Atemu felt a bit confused. His puzzlement must have shown, because Moswen attempted to explain.  
"You were really kind, and I – it was…nice." The boy's face glowed like a summer sunset. He was very red.  
Atemu began to make the connection. "Are you going back home then?" he asked, voice and face carefully neutral.  
"Not home. I – " From his face, Atemu could tell there was an inner debate occurring about how much to say. "I work here at the palace," Moswen finished.  
"A slave?"  
The boy reddened further – if that was even possible – and nodded after a pause.  
Atemu smiled. "If you'd rather say, I can fix it so you won't have to work again, little one." He went to the smaller male and wrapped his arms around him. His mouth was near Moswen's ear. "Would you like that?" he breathed.  
The half-shiver was answer enough. Atemu lipped at the curve of his charge's ear, worrying the tip gently with his teeth.  
Both of them were attired only in hip wraps; it was easy enough to work their way out of those.  
Atemu pushed forward so he was kneeling between Moswen's thighs while the boy braced himself with his own hands.  
He nuzzled his charge's neck, just inhaling the warm smell of cinnamon and spice. "My little Nefertari," he murmured.  
"I'm not a girl," Moswen objected.  
Atemu chuckled and ran his lips along the underside of the boy's jaw. "But you are a beautiful companion," he pointed out. A hand on Moswen's groin halted further protests.  
He wanted to assault the boy's skin with his mouth – leave a mark that would be forever identifiable as possession. He wanted – needed? – to keep the pale skinned boy with him.  
Forever, if necessary. Possessive.  
He trailed his mouth down the other's chest and abdomen, bypassing his need to gently mouth his sac. That drew moans – the sweetest aphrodisiac.  
Atemu drew back, smirking a little. Violet eyes opened; Moswen whimpered a protest.  
"Will you touch yourself for me?" Atemu asked, settling back on his haunches.  
The boy looked surprised at the request, but nodded, settling himself down on his back, braced by one elbow. His other hand found his hardened flesh and began to stroke it.  
Atemu followed the movements with his eyes, watching the erotic picture. Moswen's head dipped back, his breathing shallow. Sweat shimmered over every inch of skin and the hand he was using to pleasure himself moved with sure, strong strokes.  
His thighs began to tense, reflecting the release that was building. Atemu captured the hand and pulled it away, leaving his charge mewling in distress at remaining unfulfilled.  
"Turn over," he urged.  
Moswen did, his body still shaking. When he was braced on hands and knees, Atemu ran his mouth along the curve of his back. He felt the boy shiver in response.  
"Trust me?"  
"I do."  
His mouth followed the curve of one smooth cheek before he halted, hands on the boy's hips, holding him steady. Something new – an experience utterly alien.  
Atemu flicked his tongue out and traced the entrance to his charge's body. He could feel the sharp intake of air, just before he gently pushed past the ring of muscle, letting his tongue explore the recesses of the other's body.  
Moswen shuddered. Atemu flicked the tip of his tongue inside and felt the shaking increase as a low moan escaped the boy's lips.  
One hand drifted between the other's thighs, fondling him. He pressed his mouth forward, flicked his tongue again, just so…  
The walls of muscle contracted about his tongue, squeezing tightly while the boy's body jerked in spasms, releasing his seed.  
Atemu pulled out, smirking down at Moswen. The boy's face was flushed and his violet eyes had darkened to the point where they were nearly black.  
"Little one – "  
"Who are you?" Moswen asked, crawling forward to tuck his head under Atemu's chin.  
Atemu chuckled. "Should we begin with who you think I am?"  
The boy blushed a little. "I hadn't really given it much though."  
He chuckled, pulling Moswen closer. "At least you're honest about it."  
"But who are you?"  
Atemu teasingly ran a finger down the cleft of his charge's buttocks, lightly stroking the entrance. "Would you like to find out?" he breathed.  
The fear was in the boy's eyes, try as he might to hide it. There would be no possession of him. Atemu didn't mind being the source of lust, embarrassment or discomfort. He refused to be the cause of fear.  
He leaned back, settling his body on the sandstone floor. Perhaps his bed would be more comfortable, but he didn't quite feel like moving there, even if it was only a few steps away.  
Moswen looked confused. Atemu smiled reassuringly.  
A full vial of oil was perched on the small desk beside his bed. He looked at it, and felt the boy lever himself up to go get it. Patient confusion still covered his face, as though he still hadn't quite accepted the message.  
Atemu reached for the bottle. Moswen handed it to him.  
"Have you done this before?" he asked.  
The boy shook his head, wonder coloring his violet eyes.  
Atemu nodded. He had doubted – after all, the boy had been untouched in that way too…  
Liberally, he coated his fingers in the oil, watching Moswen to see if the boy followed what was happening. Violet eyes traced his every movement, right down to his fingers entering his own body.  
A short gasp of recognition/understanding escaped the boy. Atemu worked another finger into himself, stretching the muscle. It felt odd to prep himself, but he could feel those eyes on him, and so the work had an unmistakable undertone of need.  
His mind briefly flickered to his father, and what the Pharaoh's reaction might be should he discover this. His father would be…displeased, to say the least. They couldn't do anything to Moswen, though, and that gave him twisted comfort. The Rite bound part of his being to whomever claimed him. They wouldn't dare harm the boy for fear of harming him.  
He drew his fingers out of himself, offering the vial to the boy.  
"Coat yourself," he directed, then watched as Moswen did, hands smearing the thick substance over heated skin.  
He felt the pause with the boy's tip nudged his entrance. "Go slowly," he urged.  
Painfully slow, Moswen pushed into him. The sensation was not new. Seth had taken him before, like this, but this time, the outcome would be different. He planned on feeling a rush of heat in release, and the sense of true possession.  
Have I made my choice?  
Moswen began to withdraw, then thrust. His tempo was sedate, but Atemu felt his nerves on fire all the same. How was it that a young slave – a child – stirred his very being when even Seth hadn't been able to reach it?  
The pace increased and Atemu began to stroke himself, watching the slim body above him move. Violet eyes were intoxicating. Drowning him. Past the point where he rolled Seth off him already – approaching the finish.  
White colored his vision, broken only by two points of blazing purple. Something to hold onto – a place to cling.  
He felt his body tighten in response to his own release, but the movement above hadn't yet stopped –  
A warm rush entered his body as Moswen partially collapsed on top of him.  
A strangled protest issued from the doorway.  
Atemu barely caught sight of the swirling robes as they vanished out of sight.  
Blue – Seth had seen them.

Author's Note: I seem to have a thing for making cherries walk in on each other… Well, negates the need to have someone explain everything!

Time is slightly warped in the perceiving. Frankly, I don't care how much or how little time Atemu wastes simply staring at little Yuugi/Moswen, lost in thought. It hardly makes a difference, so no time values, kay?  
So, I didn't think the Japanese "Yuugi" really worked in this, so I went hunting for a name and came up with about a dozen Egyptian ones that I wanted to use. (Pet names!) I also discovered that Set/Seth is an Egyptian name meaning dazzle, Seti means 'of Seth', and the ancient Egyptian for Seth is Sutekh, referring to the evil god of chaos (incidentally, Seto in Japanese means chaos/turmoil) who slaughtered Osiris. Just some fun facts. 'Cause little Yuugi's the only one who technically isn't Egyptian in this fic, he got the name "Moswen" meaning light skin. I nearly called him Nerfertiti (never mind that it's a girl's name) because that means the perfect one, and he is perfect. For Atemu (which, by the way, isn't Egyptian. XD)  
Think about it – all those guys wearing kilts or hip-wraps with nothing on under it! Of course lil perv Atemu is gonna want the floor. Best seat in the house for clothing-on examination. ;)  
Ammon – Egyptian male name meaning 'hidden' often used in conjunction with "Ra" or "Re" as in Ammon-Ra/Ammon-Re.  
Lotus – I have no idea how strong lotus smell, but I needed something for Atemu to latch onto… And something nice for Yuugi/Moswen to do!  
Nefertari means 'beautiful companion'. Yes, Yuugi/Moswen isn't female, but there weren't any male names that implied beauty or perfection.  
Specific to my universe, only the royalty of Egypt have anything to do with the Claiming Rite. For anyone else, whoever's on top is personal pref because no one else is destined to become a god. Power over a god – no wonder Atemu's dad told him to be careful!


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

The Betrayal

-

-

-

He had meant to find Atemu – to ask him to go walking in the gardens… Had meant to engage him in conversation of something academic, do something that wasn't physical, for once.  
Atemu always returned to his chambers after bathing. Seth had gone to change out of his own ruined ceremonial robes, replacing them with an exact duplicate. Atemu liked to tease him about always dressing the same way – his response had always been the same: that there was a tailor out there, somewhere, in love with the palace coffers.  
It didn't matter. He had walked to the prince's rooms, and been frozen at the door. Not by the sight of the prince with another person, but from where Atemu was. Not over the other's body. Not even underneath with his partner impaled – no. Truly subordinate, panting and moaning as the small form of another male possessed him.  
He watched, open mouthed in surprise. Atemu's body began to shake, the male above him half-growling.  
He waited, expecting the prince to roll over at any minute – reverse the situations and finish himself in his partner's body.  
Waited.  
Waited.  
But Atemu didn't make any move towards that, mewling like a kitten as his back arched. The other male collapsed on him, then, and Seth felt something like a choked sob force its way out of his throat.  
He ran.  
But he could hear Atemu's soft footfalls chasing behind him.  
He didn't want to see the prince, didn't want to deal with his insufferable royal self. Was it even possible to want someone more? Was it possible to hate them more?  
His indecision reflected in his speed – Atemu was catching him. Granted, he wasn't the foot-racer the prince was, but with longer legs, he should have had some sort of advantage.  
Atemu's hand closed around his wrist, stopping his headlong charge into nowhere. Seth turned, pulling his hand back, the cool and collected part in the back of his head noting that the prince had had the intelligence to put a hip wrap on, at least.  
To hide the marks of claiming.  
Seth pulled back from the prince, shaking his head and refusing to meet Atemu's eyes.  
"Seth!" His name stopped him, yanking him backwards like a dog on a tether cut too short.  
He could feel himself shaking all over, wondering what in hell's name had happened to him.  
Do the gods hate me so?  
"Seth – " Atemu's voice was soothing, his crimson eyes less so. Pits of fire in an unnaturally perfect face.  
Seth blinked and looked away.  
"Were you looking for me?"  
Was he going to simply pretend nothing had happened? Mute, not trusting his voice to words, Seth nodded.  
A pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer to the sweaty body of the prince. His sharp nose could smell the heady scent of sex and betrayal. Atemu didn't seem to notice his affront.  
"It wasn't what it looked like," the prince whispered to him, his low voice forcing calm over Seth's high strung body, even as his mind shrieked in protest.  
At last he managed a semblance of voice. "Of course it was," he raggedly breathed. "He was on top of you."  
It seemed like such a silly thing to say – of course he'd been on top – but his mind decided it had to be pointed out. The wrongs of the world could be instantly righted if only he'd seen incorrectly.  
He waited, expecting Atemu to deny it and prove that he had seen wrong – that his memory was incorrect. He waited for his failings to be pointed out and for the twisted chuckle of taunting laughter that was at once so infuriating and so comforting.  
It never came.  
Atemu exhaled slowly. "Seth…" He seemed at a complete loss for words. "He's the boy you left for me. The slave."  
What did that have to do with anything?  
Cautious in his agreement, Seth nodded. It was beside the point that he hadn't recognized that small detail. Being preoccupied with his – the – prince being possessed had been rather forefront in his mind, after all.  
The prince's whole demeanor seemed defeated, asking for sustaining comfort of some sort.  
He couldn't help but answer that need, despite how much he felt like he should be loathing Atemu and his actions. Seth tugged on his arm.  
"It seems we both have things to say. We can talk in the gardens."  
Atemu's nod seemed weary. His red eyes were faded crimson, no longer the vicious pools of living fire but more a set of infected sores, leaking blood that was too red.  
"Let's go."

The gardens were not overly large, but they were ornate and there were benches scattered around, as well as stone walls that were supposed to be part of the scenery. Atemu had chosen a section of one of the walls and laid himself out on it, still oozing unconscious sex appeal as Seth sought his own resting place. Nearby.  
On the same wall.  
Inches away from Atemu.  
"May I ask just why you were playing ewe today?" Seth inquired, glad when his voice did not display emotion.  
Atemu sat up abruptly, his face contorted with some kind of pain.  
Seth reached out to him, unsure of what exactly to do. Atemu's physicality had everything to do with sex. He wasn't sure what the reaction to physical comfort would be.  
His hand rested gently on the prince's shoulder. Atemu turned into him and clutched at his robes, trembling.  
"Atemu?"  
"Gods…Seth, I – I…" He trailed off sounding so broken, looking up to meet Seth's eyes.  
"What is it, Atemu?" The protective instinct arose in him. Had that – thing – done something to hurt his prince? "What did he do?"  
Atemu laughed. It sounded like someone was choking a songbird. "He didn't do anything."  
"Then what is it?" He was impatient now, wondering what had gotten so badly into the prince that Atemu looked like he was going to break down.  
Crimson eyes drifted shut. So softly, Atemu whispered, "Seth – I raped him."

He was startled, perhaps more than he should have been. Atemu had always enjoyed being rough – his back bore enough evidence to support that claim.  
But being rough and actually forcing someone – that was an entirely different animal altogether.  
"You couldn't have," Seth pointed out, trying to be reasonable. "He was on top of you." That proved he hadn't done that. Atemu had been on the bottom.  
But the prince was shaking his head, pupils dilating madly against the sun. "No – the first night. When you were studying. That's when I did it." He was shaking even more. Seth wondered if he was going to rattle himself apart.  
"Then why was he still there?"  
"He was too afraid to leave." Atemu's gaze latched onto his.  
"Why would he be afraid?" It didn't make sense to Seth. That servant – that slave – must have done something terrible to make Atemu feel like this. It made the blood begin to boil in his veins. His prince would not rape someone.  
Atemu half-laughed, half-coughed. "You didn't see his eyes." His own eyes closed, and the grimace on his face told Seth he was reliving whatever it was he'd done. "I killed something in him."  
"He's your slave to kill," Seth pointed out, trying to be reasonable. By all laws, it was true. The whole of Egypt – everything from the silt in the Nile and the smallest grains of desert sand to the harvest and the lives of the citizenry belonged to the royal family.  
Judging from the violent shaking of his head, Atemu didn't see things quite the same way.  
"He hadn't been touched before. I hurt him." No tears, but a dizzying sense of self-hate that was more difficult to deal with than tears would have been.  
Crimson blazed. "You remember the advisor father had when he invaded Nubia. The one who wanted to kill all the civilians – even the children." Atemu sat up straighter and pulled back a bit from Seth. "Father said 'I do not make war on children.' You remember that, don't you?"  
Wordless, Seth nodded. He did remember.  
"Well, I won't kill part of one and let myself get away with it," the prince snarled.  
Seth watched as Atemu fled, disappearing further into the gardens.

The prince's room was empty. There wasn't even a stain on the floor to mark what had transpired there. He frowned and withdrew from the room, wondering where that slave had gotten to.  
"Seth?" It was Atemu. The prince was back in his haughty glory. "Is something wrong?"  
Seth shook his head slightly. "I was looking for the boy."  
Atemu frowned. "He's down in the bathing halls. Why?"  
"How much does he know about the Rite?"  
The prince's confusion melted into understanding. "He doesn't even know who I am."  
"How do you know he doesn't?"  
A funny half-smile flickered over the prince's face. The far-away look in his eyes bothered Seth immensely, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out just why. It did. That was all.  
"Well?"  
"Well what?"  
Seth frowned. "How do you know he doesn't know you're the prince and what the Rite means?"  
Atemu shook his head. "You're not a very trusting person, are you, Seth?"  
If anything, I'm too trusting. I trusted you.  
"You didn't answer my question."  
"He knows about the Rite – everyone does and you know that, or you would if you bothered to pull you head out of your books for longer than it took to get off." A familiar taunt.  
"So how is it he doesn't know you're the prince?"  
Atemu glared. "Are you incapable of taking my word on it?" he snapped.  
Seth scowled back. "Since I spend all my time in my books, I can supply you with quite a few examples of what has happened to kings who let commoners rule them."  
"He's not a commoner!"  
"You're right." He paused, staring down at the prince, before a vicious smirk twisted his lips. "He's a slave."  
Deliberately hurtful, the words had the desired effect of rendering Atemu speechless. The silence gave Seth enough time to brush by the prince, refusing to cast a backward glance over his shoulder.  
He headed for the bathing rooms, intending to finish this twisted triangle.  
One of them had to go, and it wasn't going to be him.  
That only left one choice.

The bathing halls were empty.  
Where is he?  
Atemu had said he would be here, hadn't he?  
The door opened and Seth hid himself as best as he could among the linens.  
It was not the slave. Just a servant.  
The servant placed a tray down on the floor and knelt, beginning to scrub at the tiles.  
Bile rose in Seth's throat. A servant cleaning – he'd taken that upon himself so many times. Had Atemu been with that slave here?  
Anger and other disjointed emotions he had no name for careened around in his head. He stood up, coming out from his hiding place crouched behind the linens. The servant took no notice of him, even as he walked out.  
Seth narrowed his eyes.  
He wouldn't have this slave intruding on his prince. He would find him. If necessary, he would kill him.  
But first, he had to find him.

*******************************  
Author's Note: Honestly, I was a little nervous about having Atemu be so freaked out about having raped Yuugi/Moswen. (And having him do it in the first place, as well.) I wasn't sure how well that fit with the character I'd written for him, but then I remembered he was getting a little protective, and even being a whore/slut (Rayemoon's rather accurate description) he's still got a conscience of sorts.  
Seth's mad at Yuugi/Moswen so he's calling him 'slave', just to put him down further in his own mind. All the other slaves are still 'servant' to him, though. Just to keep ya'll in my circle.  
Crapola that's short! *dies*  
Well, I had written out the first two chapters by hand, so they got the attention they sorely deserved. This one though… Well, actually, truth be told, this was supposed to be a first person POV chapter and the final one in the fic. I'll post the other chapter (which is a million pages shorter than even this one) as a separate ending, because that's how I had it planned out, but then my imagination ran off with me. XD  
Blame the birds. They made me do it. And I wanted more reviews too. I'm a review hog. =)


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

The Discovery

-

-

-

A slave.  
He was, and yet, also, he was not. By letting Moswen claim him, Atemu had elevated him above even the gods.  
And he doesn't even know what I've done, the prince thought bitterly. Seth's words had left a foul taste in his mouth.  
Slave…  
He needed to find the violet-eyed boy, to assure himself that there was something more than what appeared on the surface. He didn't stop to question this new drive that had appeared within, didn't think it necessary to ask why. Leave 'why' for the scholars and let the common people deal with 'how'.  
How do I explain this to father?  
What was done could not be undone, and he wouldn't wish it any other way, but there were – problems – that arose when one went outside one's station in life. Trouble, and difficulty for both parties.  
Moswen.  
He needed to find him.  
Now.

Pitiful cries made his feet move faster. Though his heart was beating itself to shreds in his breast and his lungs begged for a respite, he dared not grant them one.  
"Seth!" he called, knowing that only mocking laughter would meet his yell.  
And so the laughter came, echoing through the stone halls, tricked and trapped, twisting and twining about like the cats living in Baast's temple. Twice as malevolent, with half the sanity.

"Seth!"  
"Yes?"  
The cries had vanished, melting away into the air as if they had never been. Seth was standing, nearly at attention, his rigid stance betraying the anger he still held. Atemu could read his old friend as clearly as the scribes could read the writing in the tombs.  
"I – "  
Uncertainty was a new thing, an uncomfortable facet of existence. He did not like feeling unsure about anything. When had life ever made him hesitant before?  
Seth did not break the silence, watching him with cold blue eyes that sank deeper into ice with every passing second.  
"Have you seen Moswen?"  
The attempt at a calm tone fell flat on its face. Atemu saw Seth's eyes dart down to the kilt he was wearing, a slight sneer curling the edges of his lips into an ugly mask.  
"Are you unable to keep a leash on your newest acquisition?" the priest inquired, his mock-surprise more maddening than anything he could have said.  
Atemu growled, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He had always been at loggerheads with Seth, but this was ridiculous. They had taken jabs at each other before, each bruising the other's pride with blows that would have destroyed another, and yet, they had always risen above that. So, what had changed so quickly between them? In a matter of days, they had gone from enjoyment of each other's company and bodies to a constant state of tense aggression.  
"He's not a dog to be kept on one," Atemu snapped.  
Seth's face became thoughtful, though the ice in his eyes refused to melt in the slightest. "Then perhaps it is you who is being kept on a leash," the priest suggested, the subtle jibe striking its intended target: Atemu's pride.  
He was furious with Seth for even making that implication. "I submit to no one," the prince growled, taking a step forward. The movement had been intended to force Seth back, but the priest had refused to move, which let the two of them stand, body-to-body, glaring vehemently at one another.  
Atemu was prepared to shove Seth back forcefully, but the priest confounded him when a hand found the small of his back and crushed them together.  
"Seth?"  
Uncertainty again – how he hated it!  
The brunet murmured something, his mouth trailing over the curve of Atemu's ear.  
The prince shivered agreeably, though a corner of his mind protested. We should discuss this – not pretend it isn't happening.  
But in the middle of a deserted hallway, there was little to pull them out of the mood, and Seth seemed infinitely in the mood.  
Atemu bowed to the inevitable. After all, it wasn't as if he wasn't going to enjoy it.

He arched under the attention of Seth's mouth and hands. The priest knew his body better than any palace pleasure slave or courtesan, possibly because he had never liked the idea of a pleasure mate for hire. It had always been more of a challenge to entice his always-busy companion into reckless abandonment of duty.  
Now was something else entirely, with all of Seth's focus on him. There was no slight pause as the priest's mind wandered briefly to whatever project he was supposed to be attending to. The energy overflow was intoxicating and Atemu felt his body succumb to the pleasure swiftly.  
Seth's mouth lingered on his chest, nipping and biting as he saw fit, leaving dashes of blood and saliva to mix in his wake.  
Atemu reveled in the tantalizing mixture of pain and pleasure, arching his body to wherever the priest's mouth would be next. Seth had divested him, leaving the warm air of the desert filtering through the halls, to caress his skin.  
Each time he reached for the brunet, tried to find some purchase on his skin to latch onto, Seth was not there. He was a shadow, fading in and out between Atemu's rabid grasping, bringing an intense sense of receiving without the giving that made such play worthwhile.  
Atemu bided his time, not ceasing in his efforts to capture the priest, but not focusing his whole attention on it, either. Waiting, waiting.  
Then the moment arrived, when Seth had snaked out of his own garments, kneeling over him, leaning forward.  
The prince lunged upward, catching Seth's neck in his mouth and pressing him backward with a fury akin to the riverhorses of the Nile. The small whine of surprise that escaped the priest did not deter him – only sped him on, his hand finding Seth's hip and his fingers digging in there, holding his prize captive.  
Seth's pulse hammered under his mouth. It beat with a ferocity that defied logic, and when he looked into the eyes that had been blue, they were nearly black, pupil dilated wide to spite the light that came in through the windows.  
The long, lithe body under him surged up, arching to match the curve of his own body. Electricity crackled between bare skin, setting nerves afire with lust and the desire to possess.  
Nails raked across his back, pulling him closer and digging into all the places between muscle and bone that could possibly hurt.  
They were both screaming – half in pleasure, half in agony.  
Seth's thighs drifted apart, a hand wandering lower on Atemu's back, urging him forward though there had been no preparation at all. He didn't pause to consider it – took the opening Seth offered him and entered.  
The priest arched, the sound escaping his lips not quite human.  
There was something so unreal, so unearthly, about seeing him bent until he should snap in two, drenched in sweat and flecked with blood. Atemu pulled back slowly, then slammed home.  
His own breathing echoed loudly in his ears, his heart racing until the beats melded into a single floating chorus, each contraction indistinguishable from the next.  
His body began to move more easily in Seth's, and he could feel the stickiness of what had to be blood, coating both his thighs and the priest's.  
Both of them were racing towards the finish. He could feel it in his own body, and the close to senseless look in Seth's eyes reflected that same nearness. Of its own volition, his hand sought out the hardened flesh between them and began to stroke irregularly, dragging Seth to his completion before Atemu reached his own.  
Sticky release splattered across his abdomen and chest, Atemu stared down at Seth, breathing heavily.  
The priest's eyes were closed, head tilted to the side and a pained grimace twisted his face.  
"Seth?" Atemu withdrew slowly, wincing when he saw the mess he'd made of the priest's body. "Seth – are you all right?"  
Blue eyes snapped open and focused on him.  
"Is… Is that what you did to him?" Seth asked him, his lean body still trembling.  
Atemu froze above the brunet.  
Seth laughed a little. "I can see why he didn't leave," the priest commented, moving slowly. "He probably couldn't."  
"Did I hurt you?"  
"I'll be fine."  
"That's not what I asked."  
Seth surged up so Atemu tumbled off him. The priest smirked at him. "Does that answer your question?"  
Atemu frowned. "Make sure you can walk before you chase me off." He watched Seth balance on his knees and then rise. The brunet's body was a canvas of red and white. Bloody semen trailed slowly down his legs. Some of the breaks in his skin were already congealing, making him look like a war victim. Even though that, he was still smirking – that superior, wouldn't-you-like-to-know look that was infuriating and stimulating at the same time.  
"If I can stand, I can walk."  
Atemu pushed himself up to his feet, snagging both sets of discarded clothing on his way up. "You look like you've been through the wars."  
Seth's gaze raked over him. "You look like a victim of the plague, yourself."  
"Let's get cleaned up," the prince suggested.  
Blue eyes grew steely.  
Did I say something wrong?  
"Much as I would like to indulge, I must decline." Seth's voice was clipped – sharp and formal as he never was. At least, never with Atemu. Informality bordering on rudeness had always been trademark for him.  
There had to be something going on.  
"Seth?"  
The brunet's gaze was over his shoulder, watching someone. Atemu turned to see who it could be and had the uncomfortable sensation of violet eyes washing over him. His body had never seemed a thing to be ashamed of before, but with those eyes cast over him, he could feel the blood on his own body, and the white release contrasting with his darker skin.  
Moswen was attired simply, in the garb of a common laborer. The rough linen was only slightly paler than his skin.  
Those eyes – Atemu followed their path, down across his body, and then across Seth's, noting the slight widening when the origin of the blood on the priest's thighs became evident.  
"Moswen, it's all right." He tried to be comforting. It was hard when one was slick with blood, sweat and seed.  
The boy's eyes rested on him for a moment, and hesitantly he came forward.  
Atemu knelt down, trying to keep from wincing when his knees contacted the ground. Had he bruised them with Seth?  
He reached out a hand to the youth.  
Moswen flinched back.  
A dry chuckle from behind made him turn. Seth was watching him, a hybrid smirk and scowl stretching his mouth.  
"Scared, slave? You should be. He's a little rough, even when he doesn't mean to be – "  
"Seth." Spoken in warning, Atemu hoped the priest would pick up on the warning in his tone.  
"Yes, _Atemu_?" Seth asked, his voice a cloying mix of venom and honeyed sweetness.  
"A-atemu?" Moswen stuttered, his violet eyes opening even further, if that was possible.  
Atemu cursed. The princes of Egypt never bore the same name as any commoner. They were all unique and fitted into the perfect mold of the past. Godly names – Harakhty, Kemosiri, Ramses, Menetnashte… Atemu.  
"The prince?" The boy's voice cracked on a high note, color flooding his face and fear evident there, burning up like it had been that night.  
"Shh," Atemu tried to soothe. "It's still me, little one. I haven't changed, no matter what they name me."  
"Oh, but it makes a difference, doesn't it?" Seth asked from behind him.  
Atemu ignored that in favor of trying to calm the boy. "It doesn't matter," he said firmly. "I told you once before – it makes no difference. That hasn't changed, little one."  
Moswen seemed to deliberate on the point, and slowly, he nodded acquiescence. "I didn't know," he said softly.  
"I didn't think to tell you," Atemu murmured.  
Seth made a choking sound behind him. "I'm being strangled with sweetness," the priest growled. "Stop lying to yourself, Atemu. Man up for once in your life. I told you – bad things happen to kings that let commoners rule them."  
Atemu spun around, meaning to stop Seth before he could finish that thought. His hand was on the priest's shoulder, his eyes glaring a warning –  
"Usually the results are catastrophic." The soft, sad voice was Moswen's. "Theuti – 'Works of the Gods'."  
"Book six."  
"Chapter nine."  
Atemu followed the exchange, not recognizing it for what it was until Seth's impressed look penetrated his fogged brain.  
"You can read?"  
Moswen flushed.  
"No, Atemu, he just memorized that," Seth growled. The priest's demeanor mellowed slightly. "Do you remember the rest of it?"  
The boy trembled slightly.  
"Seth – "  
"Do you remember it?" the priest pressed.  
"'Put a rope around your neck and many will be happy to drag you along.'" So softly, Atemu could barely hear it.  
Seth smirked. "I rest my case." He bowed in mocking fashion, and left them, leaving Atemu staring after him, wondering what had just happened.  
By the time had had collected himself enough to look back to Moswen, the boy had disappeared as well, leaving him alone in the hallway.  
Things seem to have made quite a mess of themselves.

Author's Notes:  
As you may have noticed by now, nobody kisses in this fic. That's not coincidental by any means, though it is damn hard to write. It's significant, though! I'm just now sure quite how, yet…  
Names:  
Harakhty – means Horus of the two horizons  
Kemosiri – means Black Osiris  
Ramses – means Son of Ra  
Menetnashte – means power  
Theuti – equivalent of Thoth, god of wisdom and education  
I spent quite a bit of time searching for proverbs to use, and this one just made me think of this story. Atemu's got a rope around his neck! (That reeks of bondage… Maybe there's a reason Yuugi in present day likes all that leather and the collar.)  
Riverhorse is the name for a hippo. It just didn't sound right to be writing out 'hippopotamous' when doing a sex scene between the prince and his priest.

Reviews are as always, appreciated.

Another note - originally I had intended to update this fic the same time Rayemoon updated RollerCoaster Life (a must-read, if you haven't). However, since it's on hiatus because of things going on, I'm going to plunge ahead with this story and try to keep to my own sort of deadline. So, bear with me. I'm terribe with sticking to deadlines I create. *nudgenudge* Reviews help me there!


	5. Chapter 5

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Interlude: Reflection

-

-

-

How do you explain the changes in life?  
I can't claim I was ever happy cleaning things off the floor, but it made so much more sense to me. I had a place in life, a station with clearly defined boundaries. I had a set of values that I could cling to, that I could look to for support.  
I had a life.  
I still have a life, but it's not quite the same. There's been so many changes, so many upheavals in the past few days that it's hard for me to follow them all.  
This isn't the first time I've been shocked by someone else. It isn't the first time I've come across a situation I'd rather have not seen. It's not even the first time I've seen someone I cared about with someone else.  
My heart is sitting somewhere in my throat, lodged like a stone trying to bypass an entry too small. It's uncomfortable, and the stinging in my eyes doesn't make me feel any better.  
I only have vague recollections of a mother, but she never let me cry. It's become habit, I guess. I can't simply break down and let everything go, even when I'm alone.  
Perhaps especially when I'm alone.  
When I'm alone…there are ghosts.

I hadn't known. Truly – hadn't even guessed that the one who hurt me, the one who broke me then set about repairing, could be the prince. I hadn't thought beyond the moment, and the pleasure.  
It felt good. Is there shame in that, then?  
I can't even answer my own questions.  
When his mouth touched me, wherever skin connected…  
But he's the prince. Even as a slave, I know the duties a prince is supposed to have. He will grow up to be the ruler of Egypt – god incarnate. What is he doing with me then?  
Everyone knows the Rite. They say that if a god-to-be is humble enough, he can ensure immortality for himself and his soul's guardian.  
I never thought beyond the moment.  
Do I look like a guardian of any sort?  
'Little one', he calls me. I am little. I don't guard – I serve. I don't please – I receive.  
The equation is unbalanced, and I am the reason.  
Atemu – god incarnate.  
What if Theuti was right? To be possessed by a slave, to be controlled by one of such a low class –  
Disaster for Egypt.  
I can hardly bear to think of it. But if I really have condemned this country, then I must, and there has to be a way I can save her.  
I don't remember all the myths.  
A few flickering bits echo in my mind – the tragedies where all the heroes die. A set of pain-twisted faces, arms reaching for each other, tears.  
Put a rope around your neck and many will be happy to drag you along.  
Have I sentenced the prince to this?

I'm not sure if I really want to go back to – his – chambers. I can close my eyes and feel his touch on my body. It's not a healthy result of our time together. It can't possibly be. Not when I'm needing his touch like I need to breathe.  
Gods – what has he done to me?  
My feet move themselves towards his room. I can't help it, so drawn am I to whatever dark light flickers inside him. The tangled fear in the corner of my mind can stretch to shut out everything when he's around, but so can the blissful waves of pleasure.  
I don't know what to think anymore.  
I'm here, standing beside the door, looking in.  
The room is empty. I sigh, partly relieved that I don't have to make much of a decision. I can just leave – go back to my old wing of the palace. A few days missing is something I'll catch a punishment over, but nothing I can't handle. People don't give me enough credit for being tough.  
A hand catches at the back of my neck, and I find myself staring up into pools of liquid fire, burning up with the hungry desire for knowledge and understanding.  
Atemu.  
He breathes my name out, the syllables fluttering softly against his lips as if in prayer. Heat rushes into my face, and I look away.  
His hands are trailing over my face – just my face.  
Such a confusing one, the prince is. Both so certain and so uncertain at once. I can feel his indecision, mirrored as my own.  
I want to comfort him, to assure him things will be fine, but I find I cannot do that, not when my pulse begins to race and the image of that stranger soaked with blood plays through my head.  
"Are you all right?"  
His words are gentle, twisting themselves around me like a net. I can't fall when he's holding me up like this. But words – just gasps of air when everything is put into its place. They won't hold me up forever.  
My traitorous head is nodding, and he gathers me closer to him, his arms warm even through the fabric of my clothing.  
I expect him to begin tugging at the linen at once, but he contents himself with running a mouth along the underside of my jaw and along my neck. It's as though he's tasting my pulse, proving the dominance he has over me. One bite too hard and he could tear out my throat.  
His mouth is teasing, sending odd fluttering sensations coursing through me. I can't seem to help but react. The small sounds of pleasure I make seem to please him.  
A gentle thumb trails across my cheek and my eyes flutter open to look into his. The fire in his eyes has dimmed to something darker – more sinister. The raging heat that had drawn me to him even when I wanted to flee is gone.  
And still –  
His hands don't do anything to me. They do not hurt, they do not seek to possess.  
I lean into them, closing my eyes and my mind to the dead look in his eyes.  
I lean on his chest, my arms folded up across my own, forming a barrier between us. His arms wrap around me and he holds me, breathing softly in my hair.  
He smells of flames and pain. Battle and rage. Terror – blind, simple panic.  
The salty aftertaste of release taints his being. A metallic rush that has to be blood rings in the chorus, taunting.  
I can't pretend I'm not horrified by his nature.  
Demon-born, my mind whispers, but even as it warns, his seductive presence is lulling me into a gentler, more receptive frame of mind. I can't refuse him.

His shoulder makes a nice pillow. Heat brews still, and if he asked it of me, I would fight my way back to the land of the conscious to please him again. But he asks nothing of me – simply watching, the way he had that first night when I lay frozen with terror, pretending at sleep to get him to leave.  
This time I'm not pretending as I sink into the darkness, but I do hope he'll stay. The look on his face has me worried. Thoughtful, pained – there are burdens that a prince bears a slave can only guess at, but I am used to hardship. Perhaps I will be able to pull something more out of him.

I drift slowly back into the waking world, looking about sleepily for Atemu. He is still sitting, still watching as though his vigil can somehow protect me from himself.  
Not that I need any such protection. It was stripped away my first night here, and I can say I don't miss it overly so.  
The light gossamer sheets cling to me, and I push myself up, blinking sleep away.  
A light smile touches his lips, half-thankfulness, half-challenge.  
He comes closer to me, brushing lips gently over my partly closed eyes. Just to have him close.  
My traitorous mind taps against my senses, pushing the nearness of his face away when all I really want to do is surrender to those eyes. That mouth.  
They say that in the afterlife, your heart is weighed against the feather of truth, and if one is found wanting, the soul will be destroyed. I carry the heaviness of a million unspoken words, and as many secrets. I cannot say my soul will make it to eternal rest.  
He looks so needy.  
I reach out, offering myself as whatever small protection against the world I can be.

This time, I can feel the blue eyes watching us. Ice freezes over any fire that may have stirred within. I let Atemu claim me as his own – mark me as the center of whatever he needs me to be – but the frozen eyes of very depths of the Nile are watching.  
Every breath I take is suspect. Every movement is questionable. Within my own skin, I am not safe, but within his –  
There is my refuge.  
I seek out the eyes of the man of injured pride.  
He sees me looking and offers a smirk that has as much twisted joy as pain and suffering lodged in its grasp.  
Enemy, traitor, that gaze whispers. I close my eyes to shut out the lies. They persist. Once the seed of doubt has been planted, even without care the roots begin to take hold.  
Nor is it possible to destroy them completely.

Atemu's skin is hot against mine as he takes up residence beside me, tangling our limbs together, pulling me so close I could lose myself in him.  
The blue eyes in the door have vanished, leaving behind a sickened sense of disappointment and bitter anger.  
With my head tucked under his chin, I could care less. This is my refuge.

Author's Notes:  
It's a chapter without an explicit lemon. Gods kill me – I think I'm going insane. First, lemons make readers happy. Second, they take up lots of space and words if written properly. So, why no lemon this chapter?  
Take a look at it from this point of view – Yuugi/Moswen is a more private person in my mind. He's already informed me that he's quite upset at having Seth walk in while he and Atemu were "consummating their relationship" and made it quite clear if I couldn't get voyeuristic tendencies out of my writing for his chapter debut, he was going to kick me.  
What are you going to do when a character that isn't even your own threatens you? I mean, really? So, he got his way, and there's a notable absence of lemon and much more thinking going on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Sparring

-

-

-

Walking was painful. Each movement made his thighs ache, and he doubted he'd be sitting comfortably any time soon.  
The look on Atemu's face had been worth every drop of blood spilled. The look on that slave's face, the flaring light of fear – it was worth bearing the agony now.  
Seth pulled another scroll forward. He was sprawled out across the floor in his study, searching intently for anything he could use to his advantage to discredit the tiny slave. By virtue of the fact the violet-eyed child could read, he should be in trouble. No slave was permitted to learn such a thing.  
And Seth was convinced he had learned. Rote memorization was one thing – and he had a memory to rival the greatest libraries – but actual knowledge of the letters was quite another. He was convinced this slave knew the use of letters.  
Little Greek brat, I bet.  
It would explain his pale skin.  
Maybe even a son of a noble household.  
Wouldn't that be irony then? To be a noble and lose such position only regain it in greater measure by a careless prince's mistake…  
Except that gods didn't make mistakes.  
He couldn't have meant to, Seth assured himself, but the words rang hollow to his own mental ears.  
He knew very well Atemu had indeed meant to. It only made the pain that much worse.  
Theuti, "Works of the Gods," book 6, chapter 9.  
The damning words glared back at him, both in the scribes' formal hieroglyphics and the more common cuneiform, laughing at him, pictures of chained gods fighting their way up off the papyrus.  
Why did you do it, Atemu?

A gentle knock on the door of his study brought him out of the half-trance he entered while working. Sitting up was painful. He covered a wince as the door opened and Mana – of all people – poked her head in.  
While most people assumed the girl was a carefree, reckless child, Seth knew that she only played the part. She was in actuality nearly as cold in focus as her master, Mahado, and for many of the same reasons. While she may not have sworn an oath to protect the Pharaoh through eternity, she had pledged her unwavering loyalty to the bearer of the Ring, and she was as tenacious in her oaths as any Seth had encountered before.  
"Mahado's looking for you," she told him, her voice not quite as perky as it generally seemed to be.  
Again, Seth called to the front illusion. A student was an excellent distraction, and a quirky, slightly klutzy one even better. Mana fit the mold to near perfection, which benefited Mahado.  
"Where is he?" Seth asked, not moving to conceal the simple fact that it hurt.  
Mana wasn't fooled. "What happened to you?"  
Bluntness – a besetting sin, the priest decided. The young wizard-in-training was immune to his glares, but he'd be damned if he gave her the answer she sought.  
"It's nothing."  
She was more adult than many of the adults he knew. She could take a hint, and gracefully the subject changed back to its previous course.  
"He's in the Great Library." Her eyes bored into him, telling him without words that whatever Mahado wanted to discuss, it must be important. Neither liked the other, and that dislike from her master had seemed to carry to Mana, like the distaste of a hunter to his hound.  
Though the girl would surely protest the comparison, Seth privately thought she was very much akin to the prized bitches of the gazelle hunters. She was ornery, loyal and entirely smitten with her overlord.  
He nodded, and Mana gave a polite half-bow before pulling back out of the room, leaving him to figure out the best way to regain his feet. The trip down to the Great Library was not going to be an easy one.

He strode into the stone structure a while later.  
"Why are you limping?"  
Perhaps 'strode' was too strong a word.  
"Good day to you too, Mahado."  
The Ring-bearer watched him. Those eyes gave Seth chills. Not ice, nor even fire, but something infinitely more disturbing – pure shadow.  
"Mana said you wanted to speak to me." He regarded the older item holder; Mahado simply nodded.  
He could have stretched the silence, pulled it tight and let it rewind itself up in painful curls, but as simply being here was an inconvenience, he figured there were more useful things to do.  
"What do you want?"  
Mahado nodded towards a set of scrolls laid out across one of the rickety wooden tables. "I had the feeling you might find these to be of interest."  
He followed the other to the table and examined the writing. All in hieroglyphics – these would be the priestly manuals, then. The writing was old, and seemed incredibly archaic, even for priests.  
"Why?"  
A smirk pulled at the corners of Mahado's lips. Seth covered a snarl. "If you can sit down," the Ring-bearer said, false innocence laced through his words, "maybe I'll take the time to explain it to you."  
Seth didn't bother to answer, instead scooping up the documents and starting to walk back out the way he'd come.  
The lazy drawl of the other item holder caught and held his attention long enough for him to hear, "You may want to watch where you let Atemu possess you… It's rather disconcerting to be teaching one's student and be interrupted by someone else's tryst."  
Seth wondered if he had been designed as the target of others' jokes as a prank by the gods or if he'd done something in this life to deserve it.  
Mahado's snickering behind him as he left decided him.  
The gods have it in for me.

He was lying on the floor again, comfortably sprawled out, and damn whatever fancy clothing was wrinkled. Sitting was quite out of the question.  
The scroll he'd abducted from Mahado was almost a third-way translated, but it felt like he'd hit a roadblock of sorts. It was becoming increasingly difficult to dedicate his full attention to decrypting the writing. Part of that was the ache in his back and buttocks. The other part…well, archaic the scroll might be, but even so, it managed to be quite explicit when it came to some things.  
Besides the section dealing with the nature of people – a mundane enough topic – the work also contained quite a host of information on the Rite itself. Some was truly – academically – fascinating, and then there were sections like this one that made his groin tighten uncomfortably. Scholarly these writers may have been. Inexperienced they certainly were not.  
Seth growled in frustration. Such responses to erotic literature were not unknown, but why was it happening to him?  
As if to taunt him, the passage continued on, becoming – if such a thing were possible – even more descriptive.  
This is ridiculous.  
Had Mahado's goal been to arouse him like this? He hoped not. The Ring-bearer was quite enough trouble to deal with already without a vague fascination for others' sexual lives tacked on.  
After a covert glance at the door, Seth grumbled and rolled over, loosening the fastenings of his robes. His eyes drifted half-shut and one hand snaked down to pleasure himself.  
He kept quiet, panting heavily but restraining any moans.  
Even so…  
"I don't know why you're flying solo when I would have been happy to join in."  
Atemu – he seemed to have a sixth sense of sorts for desire.  
There was no reply he could make that wouldn't ring hollow, so he declined, calmly wiping his hands off on a piece of linen he always kept in here. Only, it usually had been put to a different use…  
"I thought you found that degrading." Atemu's breath was soft in his ear, fluttering along the edges. He suppressed an odd wiggling sensation in the pit of his stomach.  
"Only when you're watching." He couldn't help it – some of the breathlessness he felt escaped into his voice. Only a fraction – but enough.  
Atemu's arms curled around him, and the prince knelt by him. Seth felt Atemu's mouth working against his neck, his collarbone.  
"I've been watching."  
He wasn't sure if he spoke aloud or not.  
Then how far have I fallen?  
A soft chuckle was his only answer, and it may have been from the quickening of his pulse, not a comment on his thoughts.  
AS the prince's wandering hands began to pull at his clothing, Seth willingly abandoned it, though his mind till clung to his questions, holding them dear as a lifeline.  
How far have I fallen?

I believe living in a war zone would be more restful.  
How was it that whenever Atemu was around, he always ended up the sore one? Seth had to wonder, and wonder too how Atemu has anywhere near enough stamina to keep up with both the little slave and him.  
And Seth knew Atemu still was with the boy. He'd been with Atemu often enough afterwards – seen the creamy white burning paths across the prince's thighs. He'd been on the receiving end of a half-hearted claiming often enough to understand.  
He'd reached a truce of sorts with the little slave. The two of them avoided each other for the most part. The little one never infringed on the time he claimed with Atemu, and in return, Seth avoided the prince's chambers and certain not-so-vacant hallways.  
The search to discredit the little one had turned up nothing, really. Before he'd been enslaved, his birthright in Sparta had entitled him to learning the use of letters. Prior knowledge could hardly be decreed illegal, and it gave the two of them common ground that was not a battlefield.  
Enough common ground to keep from accidentally slaughtering one another.  
Seth knew Atemu had still not said anything to the Pharaoh with regards to the boy and the Rite of Claiming. In some ways, he was hardly surprised. In others –  
Was Atemu perhaps ashamed at having given a portion of his soul into a slave's keeping?  
Did he perhaps not represent the challenge Seth thought he did?  
Distant thoughts suitable for another day.  
Mana was at his door, her dark hair pulled back with a leather thong. Even as he rose to meet her, he reflected silently at all that had changed in a few short months. He was no more friendly with Mahado than he had ever been, but somehow he had managed – quite by accident – to acquire the rather disarming adoration of the Ring-bearer's pupil  
Not in a physical sense – at leas, not the way Atemu had captured his interest. No, while Mana's infatuation with him was strong, it was not linked to the body's capacity for pleasure, but rather, its ability to inflict pain.  
The two of them had engaged in a bout of anger over one slighting remark too many on Seth's part towards Mahado. The encounter hadn't ended the way he'd envisioned. Instead of sending Mahado pieces of his favorite student, Seth found himself in a sparring match with the curious young magician-child three afternoons out of five.  
She never beat him – even Atemu couldn't best him on his own field. It didn't keep the contests from being interesting, though. The moment Mana had become reasonably proficient with any weapon, she tested it against him in combat.  
In a short time, she'd become effective with a staggering number of weapons from the armory. The only ones she avoided were Seth's signature – twin rapiers that flashed with dizzying efficiency.  
Her most recent conquest on the training field was the halberd. He had a feeling that would be her weapon of choice today.  
Standing across the field from his opponent, Seth twirled his weapons impatiently, waiting for Mana to step into a fighter's stance. Finally she did and he charged, blades leading the way, a feral cry on his lips.  
It might only be practice, but what use was practicing at half-skill? Anything worth doing was worth putting all effort into. Battle wouldn't allow for mistakes, so it was foolish to allow them in practice.  
A warrior may win a thousand fights, but he can only lose one.  
Seth clung to that. His weapons flashed up.  
A flurry of blows later and they stood frozen, Seth's blades resting lightly at the base of Mana's neck. She grimaced. He offered his a smirk and pulled back.  
The young magician sighed and paced back to the challenger's side.  
Seth's eyes followed here, glittering cold steel.  
"Begin."

Whirling blades met a tightly coordinated defense. HE wasn't troubled – the opening would be there. Closer, the two of them melded, flashing weapons burning into nothingness, pressed so closely together they could have been one entity.  
A thin blade snaked up and froze both combatants.  
"You're out of shape," Seth commented.  
Atemu grimaced. "Running isn't quite as demanding of my arms," he agreed, shaking out the limbs.  
The high priest narrowed his eyes slightly. "You're only running now?"  
The prince shrugged. "The two of us have been running together for a while now."  
The two of us.  
Two of them was what he meant, Seth though, slightly bitter. It seemed even on his own field he couldn't quite escape the presence of the little one.  
Though Atemu rarely spoke his name, it had been branded into the makeup of ever conversation they had.  
Pale skinned Greek-brat.  
Atemu seemed entirely unaware of the great dislike Seth still harbored. Though he could assure himself with reasonable certainty that he'd never harm the boy intentionally, that meant nothing in the general scheme of things.  
"Seth?" The prince's voice recalled him to the present.  
"Hm?" He let his eyes drift down to meet Atemu's, blue sky and burning ember.  
A hand pulled him closer, made slightly awkward due to the weapons both still grasped. The law of the battlefield prevailed even now, hammered so deeply neither would think to defy it.  
It didn't matter that the field was un-bloodied dirt, or that no weapons master was present to witness. One did not make such distinctions. It was law. It was life.  
Never drop your weapon.  
"Are you busy anytime soon?" A voice filled with promise and suggestion… All the same –  
"Yes."  
Atemu's shoulders drooped slightly. "Are you sure?"  
They walked off the field together, practice weapons strapped in their respective sheaths. Atemu paced close to him – so close Seth could feel the heat radiating off his body. Too hot?  
A light bush of his hand across the prince's arm while they shelved their weaponry confirmed it.  
"You're feverish."  
Atemu's laugh – was it forced? Was he attempting to conceal sickness behind a façade of supreme health?  
Seth couldn't help but wonder – and worry.  
"It's nothing," the prince replied. "Just a little too much time in the sun, I guess." His was a tone that booked no argument.  
The priest had no choice but to bow to the veiled command.  
Forget you ever noticed.

Seth's days had more or less fallen into a pattern. He rose with the dawn, fought his way though whatever minor inconsistencies life offered and enjoyed what time he had with Atemu. But as Theuti had written, so Seth believed, and he mistrusted perfection. It was merely the calm before the storm, and so, when the wave crested, he wasn't really surprised at all.

Author's Notes:  
First is Mana – I actually don't care all that much for how she is in the anime. Too happy and not resourceful enough for me. So I decided she was a supreme actress and her purpose in life (aside from learning from Mahado) was to distract anyone who might look too closely at her master.  
Time jumps quite a bit here. I think I have two time lapses here that cross over several months. I didn't see anything extraordinary happening in that time period, and it's more fun just to get on to the ideas I do have, so here ya go.  
I'm writing things out by hand again, which is good in some ways, and not so good in others. The first good thing is that the chapters are double edited. The second good thing is that they have a more finished feel to them (at least to me). Bad thing…well, it takes longer to update. Quality over quantity, though. Quality over quantity.


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

The Devotion

-

-

-

Atemu's hips rocked slowly forward and back, gently grinding against Moswen's. The slightly smaller male tugged him closer, until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.  
Then he pulled back and lifted one of the boy's wrists to his lips, sucking lightly at the pulse, pressing teeth and tongue into the skin. He was kneeling before Moswen pulled up close against his legs, resting content as hands worked soothingly in his hair.  
There was a harsh tap on the door to break them out of their quiet time together.  
Atemu looked up as a slave girl poked her head in.  
"M'lady desires to see you, your highness," the messenger said.  
Atemu hardly noticed that she didn't keep her eyes properly averted from his royal person.  
"M'lady" could only refer to one person in the court.  
Why would Isis need to speak to him?

Three taps on her door and he was admitted. Moswen had been less than happy at being left behind, but besides the initial protest, he hadn't been too vocal about it.  
"Isis," he said, locking eyes with the willowy figure.  
"Atemu," she replied, bowing her head slightly in a gesture of welcome. "It is good you have come."  
Isis was a relative mystery to all the Item holders. She seemed neither to have nor care to have any ties to the physical realm of existence. Her eyes were always distant, locked up in a future only she could see.  
Few approached her.  
Fewer still did so twice.  
Isis' very presence had a way of driving all inconsequentials out of one's mind, leaving it raw and open.  
Atemu didn't mind the feeling, though he knew others did. Seth in particular did not like having only the shape of an idea in his mind with none of the details.  
"What is it you want?"  
A half-smile fluttered against her lips. Atemu wished she wouldn't attempt to smile. The expression seemed so foreign on her ageless face.  
"Mahado is worried."  
He took a moment to process that. Mahado was worried, so Isis asked to speak with him? Long ago he'd learned not to try dissecting Isis' reasons. Invariably all guesses turned out incorrect.  
"He worries for you, my prince."  
Isis seemed slightly more corporeal today, as if she'd decided to come back for a visit to the realm of the present.  
Atemu nodded slightly and shifted on his feet, waiting for Isis to reach her point. AS the prince, he could have commanded everything laid out, but as he'd discovered, sometimes waiting for the point helped it make more sense than demanding it outright.  
Her gaze locked with his again and some of the disquiet she must be feeling coursed into his veins.  
"I am at an impasse. I cannot explain to my breathern the why behind this, for it is your secret to bear." Foreign eyes bored into him. "I cannot keep you from whatever madness this will bring. My prince, I wish only for your safety." Her voice was rising in urgency. "Why you had me bind – "  
"Enough, Isis." Atemu stilled her speech, raising a hand and breaking away his eyes. HE could almost feel it again…  
Her head lowered, as if in defeat. "If my prince wills it, I will speak of it no more."  
He reached out a hand to her, laying it on her shoulder. "I do will it, Isis."  
She looked up.  
"You will burn up from the inside."  
He chuckled without humor. "What fear is a hearth fire when the city is aflame?"

Atemu's hands tore at Seth's priestly garments. The violence and white-hot passion stood in stark relief to the much more deliberate and gentle relationship the prince had with Moswen.  
Seth's growled oath as he fumbled with Atemu's lacings just made the prince more aggressive. The thin blue fabric that covered the heavier linen had already been reduced to shreds. Now he was trying to find a way to rid the priest of the infernal abomination known as clothing entirely.  
Seth had one hand down the front of Atemu's kilt and the prince had to bite back moans as skilled fingers taunted him.  
Finally, the linens covering his high priest parted and he attacked the other's skin with tooth and nail.  
"Atemu – you…you're not even – yet – " Seth panted, his dialogue slightly difficult to decrypt. But Atemu translated it well enough.  
"I want you," he growled, sweeping Seth's legs out from under him and following the priest to the floor.  
His legs spread wide to straddle the brunet's torso. In faux-surprise, he glanced at the laced shirt he was still wearing.  
"Now why is this still on?"  
Both kilt and the offending shirt found themselves discarded, and Atemu settled back over Seth, still smiling, feral as a wild animal.  
He had a sudden desire to try something new with his high priest – to make a game of it. To pause, instead of plunging in with his usual reckless abandon.  
Seth's face was startled and no little surprised when Atemu began to run his hands over the priest's torso – gently.  
He pulled one leg off Seth.  
"Turn over," Atemu urged.  
The priest complied slowly, his blue eyes following Atemu as his body shifted so he was chest down.  
Atemu swung his leg back over, settling himself on the brunet's waist. His hands went out again, this time to Seth's shoulders. He could feel the tense, knotted muscle, and immediately set about digging into it, earning some gasps of mixed pain and relief.  
"If you spend all day bent over papyrus, this is what happens," he informed his high priest, rather tartly.  
Seth's laugh sounded grating. "Did you need my clothes off just to do this?" the priest inquired cheekily.  
Atemu let out an undignified snort. "Isn't it obvious I need you entirely undressed before I can touch your shoulders?" he asked in mock-seriousness. "Of course," he added, a little more suggestively," there are advantages to having you like this…" He pulled his hips forward, dragging the evidence of his desire against his high priest's lower back.  
Seth rumbled beneath him. "If you're just going to tease, I'm leaving."  
Immediately Atemu rolled off Seth and sat himself against the nearest wall. "Go on, then," he said, struggling to hide his amusement at Seth's gaping impersonation of a fish. "I'm very fine by myself."  
His hand had found his length and begun to stroke. He titled his head back, jutted out his hips and spread his legs. Unlike Seth, he didn't mind having an audience.  
He stole a peek at the priest. Seth was openly staring, eyes trailing hungrily across Atemu's body. The thought only heightened Atemu's very real desire. He reveled in the knowledge that his high priest was watching him touch himself, hearing his whimpers of pleasure, and receiving the ache of desire in return. And all without having to touch Seth himself at all.  
Atemu felt the tightness in his thighs and groin that signaled release and forced his hand to abstain from its ministrations. Sweaty, panting, lusty, he opened his eyes to Seth. The aching need still pulsing between his legs, Atemu rose and dragged Seth back down with him.  
Their mouths warred over the territory of each other's skin, both seeking to mark and possess more. They fell into fevered thrusting, shoving their hips together as if that in itself were a claim on one another.  
Atemu – tense from his own pleasuring – released before Seth, splattering them both. Seth's ragged grinding only continued for a short time before he too reached the pinnacle and lay panting beside the prince.  
Atemu stretched languidly, enjoying the feel of Seth's eyes on his bare body. If there was a lovelier sight than his high priest's body, dripping with the aftereffects of a successful tryst, he didn't know what it was. Certainly nothing was quite so stimulating as seeing the usually haughty brunet brought down to the basest instincts of his existence. Atemu reveled in it.  
His own hand trailed down his abdomen collecting sweat and semen to slick a new arousal with. He was going to claim his luscious high priest now.  
If Seth's eyes had held resentment, or anger, or pain, he was unaware. He was oblivious to all but the callings of his body and the insatiable need to possess.

The gardens were empty. Atemu didn't mind when they were full to bursting, packed to the brim with people, but the silence of an empty garden irritated him. He let his mind wander as his feet carried him about. Yes, the unsatisfied ache for companionship of any sort still gnawed at him, but it lacked all-consuming vigor.  
He had come to the gardens as a place to think, and thought played as a poor second to real companionship. Hence, when it was necessary for thought alone, it was best to be alone.  
The basics were the easiest articles to think his way though, so that was where he began. Let the simplest truths give shape to the ones that sat precariously near the top, complex and deceiving.  
He was the prince, the heir with no siblings and no mother. His father was Pharaoh, a living god set down by Ra and Horus to rule the people.  
His closest friend was also his high priest and one day, when he wore the crown of Egypt, Seth would stand at his side.  
But the truths became misty and muddled after that. Seth would stand at his side, and the country would whisper that his high priest guarded his sould. They would offer the same reverence to Seth that would be given to the monarch of a foreign land. Some would revile him, soume would praise him, and all would listen to the priest's words.  
The crux of the matter remained that no matter what Egypt though, Seth had not been the one to whom he'd entrusted his soul. Moswen – a slave – held and guarded tha precious piece.  
To tell of the strange turn of events would anger and disrupt. Other slaves could very well demand what they were denied because of the warped perceptions such a difference would make.  
Should he allow the whispers? Should he permit the veneration of Seth as a man who ruled a god? Could he do that to the little guardian who bore the essence of his very self?  
Claimed and possessed; what a difficult decision such a thing was. Would that it had been cut into black and white.  
I am the prince. I am the heir. My father rules, and one day, so shall I.  
But the twisted mess refused to resolve itself.  
Thoth grant me the wisdom. Ra grant me the strength. Isis, your blessing, Sobek, your cunning. He paused. Set, grant me your chaos, and let it be that within I shall find the answers I seek.

When he returned to his rooms, Moswen was there, spread out across his bed, sleeping. The gentle smile creasing his soft face brought a smile to Atemu's, troubled as he was. The boy-child was the answer to many questions, though he raised as many problems. For the moment, Atemu was content to sit at the bedside, tenderly caressing the air above the sleeping boy.  
A soft set of footsteps outside his door made him look up, breaking him out of the half-trance watching Moswen's sleeping form had put him in.  
"Mahado?"  
The Ring-bearer lingered in the doorway, clearly waiting for permission to slip across the threshold. Unlike Seth, the Ring-bearer did not create his own set of rules. It gave Atemu pause for a slight moment, expecting Mahado to breech code as easily as Seth. Then it cliked into his mind that this was Mahado, to whom custom was nearly more precious than life.  
"Come in," the prince requested softly, pleased to see his most loyal Item holder enter at his urging. Not that Seth wasn't loyal, but he had a more fixed sense of practicality than the Ring-bearer did, and it often put them at loggerheads. Atemu didn't not question Seth's loyalty, but he knew if it came to a decision between Egypt or himself as prince – or Pharaoh – Seth would choose Egypt while Mahado would blindly – perhaps suicidally – pick Atemu.  
The Ring-bearer made his way silently to Atemu's side, standing next to him and surveying the sleeping child.  
"He is young," Mahado observed in his quiet voice.  
Atemu nodded. "Full of pain, as well. Much that I caused, but some that came before me." He sighed, watching the rise and fall of Moswen's chest. "I hurt him."  
Mahado nodded beside him – a gesture Atemu felt rather than saw. "Saints we are not," the Ring-bearer point out. "But then who is, besides saints?"  
It made so little and so much sense all at the same time.  
How is it that you know my needs before I do? Atemu wondered, rising to place his hands on Mahado's shoulders in a silent acknowledgement of thanks.  
Though he knew the Ring-bearer would never admit to it – unless commanded to – Atemu could almost feel the anxiety coming from him, the worry that something would happen.  
"Isis told me you were worried."  
Mahado's eyes narrowed slightly. "One must care for a great number of things when one is intent on maintaining one's station in life."  
Atemu shattered the pretense with a soft smile and a shake of his head. "She said you were worried about me."  
Dark eyes lowered. "If it is not my place to worry for my prince, then whose is it?"  
A hand under Mahado's chin forced their eyes to meet again – shadows and fire. "Worry if you must," Atemu said softly, gently. "Say your prayers for me, offer the gods their due and search the skies for portents of what may come. For all that I will be a god when I am Pharaoh, right now I am only a man, to whom the gods must neither listen nor answer. My strength is in my priests and their loyalty. Send your prayers skyward and hope they are heard, but speak to no one, my most loyal servant."  
Something like blind trust and devotion blazed in Mahado's dark eyes, illuminating the Shadows briefly.  
"Yes, my prince."  
Atemu nodded and released Mahado's shoulders, watched him make his exit out the chamber door, and resettled himself to brood, eyes locked to Moswen's still-sleeping form, holding onto it like a lifeline out of the pit of shadows he'd stumbled into.

**********************************************  
Author's Note:  
Atemu refers to Seth as THE priest and HIS high priest. Just 'cause.  
Our little princy-poo seems to keep Seth at his side expressly as a sex-toy, if no one's noticed by now. While Atemu does see his high priest as a friend, the less perfect/fluffy nature of their relationship is situated on base desire. Mutual for the most part, yes, but there are also holes in it.  
Ra (or Re) and Horus – both sun gods. If my knowledge of mythology doesn't fail me, Ra is the sun itself and Horus is the falcon-headed sun god.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Moving Forward

-

-

-

_A Note From Moswen: That's the last time you'll really see him. The last time you'll know him. You might see his shell, hear his words, feel a pulse, but you won't _ know _ him. From the inside out – there's no one else who could know him, now. All that's left for the world is an empty husk._

He was not searching, not sparring, not speaking. Simple, quiet existence. A quill lay close at hand, but his papyrus remained undefiled by marks of any sort.  
Nothing to bear witness to, nothing to wait for. Only to avoid, and hope in turn to be avoided.  
Atemu…and the Pharaoh. He had told the Pharaoh of the prince's disgrace, of his selection. Now he waited, hiding, failing to understand whatever strange longing made his throat seize and his eyes burn. A disease of some sort, a plague.  
Except that it wasn't.  
By affirming the truth of the matter to one beyond their own tangled trio, he had engraved that same truth irrecoverably into his own mind.  
For Egypt, he had to remind himself. Pharaohs might be living gods, but even they existed in the mortal realms on a span of mortal years. The kings would come and go; the sands of Egypt could shift, but never really would ever change.  
Then why did a sense of acute betrayal invade his mind?  
"You've been waiting for me." It wasn't a question, wasn't requiring of any affirmation, but he offered a nod anyway. He didn't need to look to see who it was. Even blind, even deaf, in trace, asleep or dying, he knew that presence.  
"You told him." Again, no question, no need for confirmation, and again he nodded, as if the simple motion could absolve his conscience.  
"Why?" There, the question, calling up newly formed memories of an empty audience hall and a furious Pharaoh.  
The sense of _presence_ came closer behind him, bringing with it the stench of betrayal, fear and the desperate hope for a reason. But jealousy and pain were not reason enough. Anger and resentment could not be enough.  
His mouth opened and his throat worked, but no sound came out. How could he speak without the words? So instead, he sat, silent and still, staring at the blank papyrus. Was it a reflection of all he had left?  
Nothing left. Nothing to lose.  
"Seth – "  
A hand broke into his vision, reaching beyond him for the papyrus. It touched the sheets…  
Set them on fire.  
"I can't make you look at me." Pleading?  
He turned, eyes meeting the prince.  
"Say something, please."  
Something? What was there to be said? Why was Atemu here at all?  
"You're incinerating papyrus by touching it. You may want to get that checked out."  
How could his own voice be so calm, so easy when _he_ wasn't? Where was the slight stumble, the faltering words? Too many questions and nothing like an answer for leagues.  
Atemu's half-choked laugh made him really _look_ at the prince. Egyptian skin – kissed by the sun, and sharp edged against the sky at full noon. But touched now by the heat of a sun within, and boiling over any way possible.  
"You're dying."  
Again that careless, half-desperate chuckle. "Nothing quite so dramatic. Simply…overheating."  
"The sun lives under your skin."  
Crimson eyes flashed – and drowned. Atemu sighed. "I can't touch you."  
"Or what?"  
Atemu's too-bright eyes burned into his. "I'll burn you."  
He laughed, wild and unbridled. "I've been hurt worse before." By you, but he wouldn't add that. Bodily harm was nothing to a heart accidentally – and conveniently – shredded.  
"I'm leaving." Atemu's very breath burned. Water vapor - _steam_ - condensed to burning drops of liquid on the outer shell of his ear.  
"Don't go." He didn't beg. But he was.  
One hand rested on his shoulder. Though his robes, he could feel the heat. The edges around Atemu's hand began to smoke slightly and charred back, away from the prince's touch. Then Atemu's hand was flush against _his_ skin, and searing that away as well.  
The prince pulled his hand back. "I don't want to cause you any more pain."  
I'm in enough if you plan on leaving.  
Because, of course, 'leaving' in this case wasn't the kind anyone could come back from. Maybe he'd known it from the first. Maybe the moment he'd seen a flash of violet melting over red, he'd known.  
Maybe Atemu reconsidered his wish not to inflict anymore pain, or maybe there had been something in Seth's eyes to sway him. Whatever the reason, skin caught at skin again, sliding slowly. Scalding.  
And under it all, the sickened feeling: I've never had to say goodbye before.

Atemu hadn't been exaggerating the pain. He felt the heat, felt his own skin blister and crack, and wondered how the prince kept from bursting into flames on the spot. The murmurs coming from Atemu's lips were not amorous in the slightest. Whispered apologies, over and over as if the litany of "I'm sorry" could ease the agony.  
When fingers slid into his body to ready him, Seth felt his resolve crumble, and a groan escaped.  
Atemu's eyes were over-bright.  
Unbidden, salt water streamed from Seth's eyes. Above him, poised but not yet moving, Atemu's face showed streaks as well.  
The prince took him, and heat exploded. Every nerve was on fire, sending spasms through his body, disconnecting him fully from whatever pleasure there might have been. His mind reeled in the fever-inducing presence.  
And then it was gone, vanished as if he had stepped into another dimension.

_"Hurt me." That was Atemu's voice, soft and plaintive.  
He looked wildly about, but there was only darkness.  
"Hurt me." Again, and this time accompanied by a brief flicker of tri-colored locks.  
"Hurt me, baby – please!"  
Raw desire, and Atemu's face flashed into light. He was aware of another presence, but couldn't see whoever it was.  
A whip cracked sharply and Atemu moaned, his head thrown back, neck carrying a heavy black collar.  
The mark of a slave._

Seth felt himself jerked back into the agony of Atemu's skin on his own. The prince's face was against his, and their tears mingled, even as Atemu's lips brushed gently across Seth's closed eyelids. It felt like a white-hot coin had been pressed against each one, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. The pain was becoming distant, as if it were another person's body, or simply a memory.  
Atemu's lips fluttered across his face again – may even have accidentally brushed against his _own_ lips – but then they were gone, and with them the flaming sun contained in a human body.  
Atemu wasn't there when Seth finally clawed his way back into consciousness. His skin was scorched as if he'd spent days in the desert. The taste of burn coal flecked his lips.  
I'm sorry, Atemu.

He found Atemu alone in the gardens, later, sitting, staring at the charred remains of a bush. The prince's eyes were cold, distant.  
"Atemu?"  
At the sound of his name, Atemu's ragged gaze transferred itself from the bush to Seth.  
"Why?" It was _his_ turn to be asking the questions now, playing the interrogator when really all he wanted to do was beg Atemu to reconsider. Although, asking him the why of things really was, in its own way, an attempt to make the prince see reason.  
"Isis." A word. A name. An excuse with no true reason.  
"Isis?" Seth repeated, asking in the simplest way possible what connection she had to this.  
Atemu's eyes closed. "She read the future. I did what I had to, as the prince of Egypt."  
Just as the prince? Or as the prince afraid of true commitment finally coming into his own?  
He felt the bubbling of pride, swelling bittersweet in his chest. Atemu had made his choice for the future. For Egypt.  
"What did she show you?"  
"Fire." The prince's voice was listless, distant and dull.  
Seth frowned. "Atemu, what did you do?" Don't tell me you did nothing. You're hurting, no matter what you pretend.  
Another sound – half sigh as if Atemu couldn't be bothered to fake laughter anymore. As if he were too to tired to continue the charade. Too far gone to be called back.  
"That's the funny part… _I_ did nothing." Half-truth, and Seth protested until Atemu bowed to his wishes. "I asked her about the Rite a long time ago," the prince said softly, seeming to recite the words as if the story had once belonged to someone else, millennia past.  
"She told me all the lore, the traditions, the _why_." A tiny smile fluttered across the prince's face. "Did you know that the Rite was once universal?"  
Seth said nothing, because there was nothing to be said. Rhetorical questions required no answer.  
The smile vanished. "It's terrifying, to entrust a piece of yourself to another." Now Atemu's voice was so soft, it almost could be taken that he was talking to himself. "But the Rite was started as a way to preserve a ruler's integrity, to provide a single constant in a monarch's life. And after – " The prince paused and Seth met his eyes.  
He didn't want to know, but needed to. Somehow, the twisted corner of his mind assured him that _knowing_ would allow him to lose the pain. Free himself.  
"After he completed it, I went to Isis again. I'll _need_ him forever – he's the vessel of my soul and my immortality – but it's not the same." He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Seth declined to supply any, letting the prince fumble out for himself what needed to be said.  
"Inferior to superior – never equals between us. After – after that first night, we never _could_ be equals." Regret? None Seth could detect. Perhaps a distant longing, so long unfulfilled that it scarcely registered anymore.  
"I asked Isis to ensure I would see you again." Another small, sad smile. "Sometimes it takes a mirror to see reflected pain. In some new life, we might have a real chance."  
"No." He surprised himself by speaking. He'd meant to keep silent, and let Atemu speak. But no longer would the words be halted. "In some other life, you will still be king or prince, and in status I will always be below you. There is no future, no matter your dreams, Atemu. You ruined them all the moment you consented to be Claimed."  
Furious words from a tired, injured soul. He felt the energy drain from him, and the ice began to freeze over his heart.  
"If you're really leaving for good, I expect the little one will want to say goodbye."  
"Seth –"  
He couldn't' stay to listen and let words unfreeze him. Ice was a defense now.

Apparently 'leaving' didn't mean immediately. It was another two months before anything began to happen, and even then, it seemed like such an impossibility that Seth dared to allow himself to hope. Just the tiniest spring blossom – easy to uproot and carry out of harm's way. Easy to crush underfoot.  
But it was hope.  
Of course, as he head come to expect, it died rather suddenly.

"Tell me again – why exactly do _you_ have to lead the charge?" Seth demanded.  
Atemu's cocky grin, exactly as if the past half year had never happened, awoke the tingling senses he'd believed had gone dead.  
"I've got the fastest mount, the surest aim and a weapon no one will be expecting. Why _shouldn't_ I lead?" the prince asked loftily.  
'Because you're the prince' hardly seemed a fitting excuse. After all, just the day before, the Pharaoh himself had led a band of fighters against the invading forces.  
The foreign army carried idols with it and worshipped a god of pure darkness. Unlike Set, the Egyptian god of chaos and change, _their_ god was pure destruction.  
And he appeared directly on the field of battle.  
Seth scowled at Atemu's boyish battle lust. "Just remember that Zorc-creature takes no prisoners," he growled. "If you're caught, you're dead."  
Atemu laughed – unrestrained, devoid of anything so inelegant as _fear_. "Do you forget Ra lives within my skin?"  
Seth's scowl darkened. He still had the shape of the prince's hand burned into his flesh. He hadn't forgotten. And in the months that had followed, Atemu had gotten clothing specially designed for his use, so simply touching it wouldn't set it on fire. Boiled leather – fine to look at , but damn uncomfortable to wear.  
Atemu seemed not to notice how uncomfortable the strange garments were. He wore them with much the same ease as Seth bore priestly robes.  
But as the fire in the prince's body had not diminished over the months – had really only grown stronger – such adaptations had been necessary.  
"If you get yourself killed, I'll murder you," Seth threatened.  
Atemu nodded, solemn and serious now. "I won't do anything remarkably stupid," he promised.  
Seth frowned. "That's not good enough. What about simple stupid?"  
The prince laughed. "When have you ever known a general to make a simple, stupid mistake?"  
"You're not a general."  
"I am now." Silence. "I promise, Seth. I'll come back."  
That had to be enough, because the rest of the riders were ready and Atemu's finicky bay was twitching under the reins. Seth backed off and watched as the calvary massed behind Atemu, following their prince to the battlefield against a backdrop of sunset, setting the horizon afire.

They stood on the balcony, waiting as the sun dipped further below the horizon and the sky dimmed to pale violet and slate and then finally to twilight.  
Still, there was no surging cloud of dust announcing the riders' return. Beside Seth stood Moswen, his small body plastered against the balcony rail, eyes trained on the horizon. Nothing.  
They did not speak, did not even offer confirmation of one another's presence. Though both hoped for the same conclusion, both watched for the same man, neither could possibly reconcile the differences that could bridge a gap as broad as the one Atemu represented.  
And so they waited, until midnight opened her arms and settled across the sky.  
And Moswen screamed.

Seth was startled out of his thoughts by the sudden sound, turned to see the little one collapse, sobbing piteously. Two words reached him, and his blood chilled. Amidst the chorus of "No, no - _Atemu!_" fell the daggers that caught him.  
"He's gone."

As if the loss of the prince hadn't been enough, an assassin had also managed to infiltrate the palace and kill the Pharaoh. The man had been caught, of course, but no amount of torture could restore Egypt's ruler to life.  
Without any heir-apparent, it was no surprise to anyone when the councilors of the deceased Pharaoh volunteered their candidate. The shock was that their choice was Seth.  
The story of his noble birthright was a sham, he was sure. Still, with Atemu gone and an enemy sitting on Egypt's doorstep, _someone_ who was competent needed to take the throne. So, he had accepted.  
With the voices buzzing about, Seth wondered _why_ he had. Councilors, it seemed, dithered on about the most insignificant things. For example, at present, they were trying to decide if completion of the Claiming Rite was required to become Pharaoh.  
Finally, their ambient droning became too ridiculous and he stood. The councilors quieted, looking at him in confusion. He suspected they had forgotten he was there.  
"I have already been Claimed." Seth paused, surveying them all. "By Prince Atemu."  
Instant uproar.  
"He's dead! Surely it doesn't count!"  
Seth silenced them with a raised hand. "Dead or not, it shouldn't matter."  
"Except if _he's_ dead, your _soul_ is dead," someone muttered.  
Seth ignored the comment. "Atemu may be gone, but he is not dead. Or do you have so little faith in the gods that you would deny their existence?"  
His eyes challenged the room, but no one dared speak.  
"Atemu bound his soul into immortality," he told them all quietly. "He is a god now, or as good as. One god to rule another – it's fitting, don't you think?" He didn't allow them time to answer. His face hardened.  
"We still have an enemy to defeat, so the inconsequentials can wait. Get the troops regrouped and _then_ come see me."  
Baffled to a man, the councilors made to file out when a boy broke in, panting, his eyes bright with wonder.  
"M'lords!" he cried in exuberance. "M'lords – th'enemy's gone. They've all vanished!"  
Seth sank into his chair. The councilors dragged the boy off for further questioning on this newest development, leaving him alone. A hand touched his arm lightly.  
Well, mostly alone.  
"What is it, Isis?"  
"My Pharaoh, the boy has gone as well."  
Seth nodded wearily. Really, he hadn't expected anything less.  
"What do you want us to do with him?"  
All he wanted – really wanted – to have done with the boy was to incinerate his body and scatter the ashes to the winds. But –  
_I'll need him forever – he's the vessel of my soul._  
"Bury him with the prince." He felt Isis bow behind him.  
"As you wish, my Pharaoh."  
Then she was gone, and he was alone with his thoughts. An uncomfortable situation.

He surveyed the wall. A bas-relief of himself and Atemu standing on opposite sides of a fire pit was the central motif, surrounded by dozens of paint-work detailings with lightly engraved edges. Between their outstretched hands was a smaller figure, floating, his own hands held out against theirs, effectively preventing them from touching.  
Seth looked at the workman. "May I see the chisel?" he asked, though his tone made it an order. A confused look spread over the worker's face, but he did as requested. Seth lifted the sharp-bladed object and bounced it a time or two in his hands.  
"This is a nice tool," Seth commented, hefting it experimentally in one hand.  
"T-thank you, my Phar - _wait!_"  
Too late. The dent in the wall between the carvings' hands bore no resemblance to a person.  
"Smooth that over," Seth commanded, turning to leave. "And leave it at that."

Author's Note:  
Betcha'll never expected THAT particular pony to show up, neh? Atemu and Moswen both dead…  
Maybe I was feeling depressed while writing this, maybe it was my iPod (Rainbow Love – Patrick Nuo at present) or maybe I'm just a sadist at heart. Anyway, it DID seem like this was turning into an angst-fest of sorts. Nyeh okay. I don't mind angst, but usually my cherries need a good reason before they get to suffer.  
So I gave 'em one.  
Bas-relief: I learned that this is actually a French and Italian type of wall carving/design but it fit too well for me to discard based on origin. So, if anyone mentions bas-reliefs, you can look VERY smart by saying it's NOT Egyptian. XD  
Two more little things. First, this is actually the last chapter-chapter, and the next is the epilogue. ((Kay, I lied, there's three.)) Second, there's set-up for a sequel, but you'll have to wait a bit for that. And third is actually for Rayemoon – I couldn't work in a Seth seme, but I WILL write a oneshot from earlier in the timeline and post it separately for you, keys? Great.  
Much love to all reviewers. ((Does that make four?))


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning:** YAOI which is MxM. Flames will be ignored.  
**Pairing: **SethxAtemu, AtemuxMoswen (the equivalent of Ancient!Yuugi)  
**Disclaimer:** YGO is not mine. I make no money of fanficcing this.  
**Background:** First in a trilogy.  
**Dedication:** To whoever sends dreams. And the hot myth teacher. ^_~

* * *

Epilogue: Ascension

-

-

-

_If you should die before me, ask if you could bring a friend._

**_"Will you wait for me?" Atemu's voice, soft and plaintive.  
I nod, letting him pull me even closer. His skin is so warm it hurts. He never fully explained it to me, but from what has been said and the details purposefully omitted,  
It seems Isis thinks the prince's rashness has angered the gods.  
That Atemu is being punished for his transgressions with the embodiment of the sun inside his very skin. Burned up from the inside.  
Any touch is agony, but neither the priest nor I will deny him anything. It would be impossible for either of us, just as inconceivable a notion as the sun rising in the north.  
Not a backward phenomenon, but one utterly incapable of happening.  
"Forever?" he whispers to me, and the scalding heat of his breath makes me shake in his grasp. It's like being embraced by the desert itself.  
I don't know how he's still alive.  
Forever, I pledge, knowing what a destiny such a promise entails.  
Forever – and never.  
His lips are gentle, and uncharacteristically chaste, pressing themselves against my forehead, my cheeks – branding irons of flesh.  
Carelessly, they brush across my own lips, no more than in passing, nothing more than a brief bending of traditional boundaries.  
There is a desperate sense of urgency in every move he makes, and every touch to my skin.  
_May I comfort you? Can I hold your burning body close? Let me help you, let me in._  
Silly fears, stupid worries, but they are for _him_. It's impossible not to have them.  
How easily he became the center to my universe. How simple it was for him to twist me to his needs, and even simpler when I could not resist.  
Helplessness, need, power, looks, lust – an enticing combination.  
"Tell me you'll wait," he begs, and my heart aches for him. A prince so unsure of himself. A god in need of comfort from a mortal soul.  
"I will wait," I say, slowly, deliberately.  
My eyes lock onto his and my mouth goes dry.  
"I will wait," I say again, "forever."_**

So how long is forever, I wonder, when faced with life's eternity?  
How long is the forever of death?  
How long is the ice of heaven and the fires of hell?

I stand on the balcony. The tall priest is in close proximity. Unbidden, the memories rise.

_So close, breathing in the scent of fire and sun. Holding the embodiment of the desert to me.  
So very close, until it is _my_ skin burning and his very real pain becomes my own. Only a temporary reprieve, he whispers, but I do not care. Temporary or not, he is not hurting _now_.  
And the moment is all we can ask for.  
"Will you come for me? Always?" Pulled so close we _are_ one, even with the barrier of skin between us.  
A tired smile touches his lips. "Always."  
It is a promise. Binding, bonding.  
"Wherever you are, I will come to you."  
I can't miss the little change, the twisted note in a perfect chorus.  
He will come to me.  
Can that be enough? Because, as I have discovered, this prince that I adore serves only two things – his carnal desires and the heart he pretends not to have.  
And while his urges may drive him to me for solace and comfort, I know I can only own his body and soul. He gave away his heart too long ago for me to ever hope to gain a piece of it.  
Oh, my forgotten prince.  
Will you forever come to me? Or is this just another pretty set of words?  
Maybe there's something on my face, betraying me. He leans forward and brushes at my cheeks.  
Tiny puffs of salted steam that were once tears…_

The air constricts in my lungs, and the memories vanish into puffs of smoke so like those tears he made vanish.  
Except – he's not there anymore.  
His presence has vanished.  
He's gone.  
And white hot agony pours through me. My bones are being crushed. The blood boils in my veins. Everything is torture.  
Somewhere, dimly in the background, someone is screaming.  
Dimly, I become aware of the savage tearing of my throat, and it floats to my mind that I'm the one crying out.  
_No, no, NO!  
How could you leave me? You _promised!

_Hold me close, so close.  
Until the beating of his heart matches mine.  
Until I can't tell if it's my own breath or his.  
Until the difference in skin tone has blended in the dusk and we are only grey.  
"I'll never let you go," he whispers into my ear.  
I do not doubt him.  
Cannot.  
"You will never have to," I whisper back, but my words are chased away by the gathering rain.  
I make a move to go back into the palace walls, but he holds me, and I do not fight to be free, content to sit so close to him.  
Breathe his scent, feel the air heat around him.  
Simply exist.  
He's been quiet for a long time. My face is against his shoulder, and I ask him something.  
The words come out muffled.  
He pulls me back a little, just so he can see my face.  
I melt in pools of crimson.  
"Try that again."  
My face heats up slightly with his eyes locked on mine. So perfect – flawless. Does he really want _me?_  
"Isis…"  
His hand cups my face. So very gently.  
"What about her?"  
I close my eyes, wondering if I should ask. If I _can_ ask.  
"She sees the future?"  
Something like a sigh, and he looks away. In profile, he is just as striking as face on. But at least like this, I can breathe. He nods his head, slowly, and I wonder if he knows my next question – inevitable.  
"Did…" I cannot force it out, and I look away from him in his terrible beauty.  
But it seems not to matter, because he knows me as well as I know myself.  
"Yes," he answers, so softly. "Yes, she did."  
I want to know, want to ask him, but I cannot demand, and he does not offer.  
To my unspoken question at length, he says, "Fire, little one. She saw fire."  
A crooked smile twists his perfect mouth. "But not for a long time."  
Something between us flares, and I know he's lying.  
But I cannot bring myself to say anything, and he does not know I know.  
"You know I'd never leave you."  
His lips are seeking, purposeful.  
Thankfully, gratefully, I yield to them, giving myself up. Take me, please. Away from this land of thoughts and words to a place where we can simply feel.  
His last words to me before we join, breathing softly under gentle rain…  
"I promise, little one. I'll never leave."_

But he is gone.  
Vanished, and I am empty inside.  
The stones bear witness to his death, drenched in scarlet fast fading to muddy brown. It is here I followed him to.  
From here I will follow him for the rest of my life.  
He promised he'd never leave. Now I will find him, and see if he meant what he said.

The knife is soft, or maybe it's my skin, parting to let the blade drive home.  
I know I've forgotten something, but I cannot be bothered to remember what it is.  
Atemu – I can feel him waiting.  
Just like he promised.

Author's Notes:  
So, that's a wrap. First finished multi-chapter story here. Keep eyes and ears open for the sequel. :)  
Love to all reviewers - sorry it took forever for the ending chapter. (And that it's so short.) I have difficulty 'speaking' from Moswen/Yuugi's point of view.


End file.
